Brothers Under the Sun
by Merlyn Pyndragon
Summary: For eons, Assassins and Templars have locked horns. Never have the British Rangers chosen a side, but when Will Treaty is discovered with a murdered Assassin, he puts the whole Corps in danger. He and his friends must find the true killer, even if that means crossing all of Europe and coming head to head with one of the most dangerous Assassins of the age: Ezio Auditore.
1. Passing the Torch

**References to AC games one through Black Flag. Any number of RA books should suffice.** **I** **have spliced the fandoms rather than doing a time-travel, parallel-world-jumping thing.**

 **Disclaimers at bottom. Enjoy!**

* * *

~Prologue~

Masyaf, Syria  
1257

"Ah, the end of an era..."

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad rested back on the bench, observing the orderly confusion of stragglers piling the last of their goods upon overladen carts, the brays of donkeys and stamps of hooves on turf punctuated by the commanding voices of men. They were all to be gone within the day, never to see the walls of Masyaf again. Already the houses and shacks lining arid streets looked forlorn and empty, watching with dark windows as their keepers sought a living elsewhere. The castle overlooking them all, waving in the heat, seemed even more forsaken.

The Assassin grand master sighed through his beard, conscious of the presence of his son nearby.

"When I was very young, I was foolish enough to believe that our creed would bring an end to all these conflicts. If only I possessed the humility to say to myself, I have seen enough for one life. That I have played my part." He placed his hand on Darim's, clasping it with old strength. "Then again, there is no greater glory than fighting to find the truth."

"We are ready."

Altaïr looked over to their Italian friend, reaching into his white, sweeping robes.

"A last favour, Niccolò." He stood, pulling out five disks engraved with markings not of this age. Each could sit comfortably in one's hand, and were warm to the touch. He held them out. "Take these with you and guard them well. Hide them if you must."

Niccolò accepted the disks, intrigued. "Artifacts?"

"Of a kind. They are keys, each one imbued with a message."

Now he looked puzzled. "A message for whom?"

Altaïr shook his head. "I wish I knew."

Niccolò turned away, sensing the exchange over and eager to take a closer look at those keys. He would study them as long as they were his to bear, Altaïr knew. He was glad to have met Niccolò Polo.

"I suppose it would be plausible to say I shall never learn what that message is nor what those keys unlock."

Altaïr turned with a sad smile to Darim, who looked sullen. Not from the duty bestowed on the Italian and not him, Altaïr knew, but from this entire matter collectively. He put a hand on his son's shoulder.

"I know how hard it is leaving a stone untouched, Darim. But sometimes it is better not to exhume another mystery when you are unsure if you have enough time to unravel it." Altaïr reached into his robes again. "But I do have something for you."

Some of the sullenness made way for curiosity, Altaïr was pleased to note. He pulled a cube from his robes. Larger than an apple, it was made up of smaller cubes, four wide, four high and four deep. It looked to be made of steel, but with a duller sheen and harder density. Each face could be rotated by a mechanism in the centre of the artifact, and every smaller cube had a part of a symbol engraved into it. Altaïr had only ever been able to complete one face, no matter how long he'd toyed with it. It was a puzzle to him now as it had been three decades ago.

He held it up to the sun. Shapes of light danced across their faces. "This was discovered in a land to the west, in an unmarked cairn. Malik gave it to me long ago, to keep it safe."

"Why? What is it?"

Altaïr placed the cube into Darim's hand. "It must be taken to the furthest reaches of the earth, Son. Where the wrong people would never dare to venture."

"The Polos are looking to the east. Why not give it to them as well?"

"I have burdened them with enough secrets," said Altaïr. "There are lands north of here, barely explored but by a few. Further north than Britain, further west than Africa. Send it there. The Polos will know of anyone sailing in that direction." He coughed, deep and rattling, pain stabbing through his chest.

"Father?" Darim supported him back to the bench, face etched with a concern deeper than his age lines.

"I'm alright." Altaïr coughed a few more times, lighter but no less gravelly. He was tired, oh so tired. The fit subsided and he sighed. "It is cruel, no? The world has so much to offer, to see, and yet it does not give a man years enough to witness it all."

"I think you have played your part, Father," said Darim, laying a hand on Altaïr's shoulder and squeezing gently. "You have done more in one lifetime than any man ever has and ever will again. You've earned your rest."

"Perhaps. It would be nice to let someone else take charge for a while." When he felt he could, the Master Assassin stood, every limb trembling with the burden of age. Darim got to his feet as well, offering an arm that Altaïr politely refused.

Squinting against the sun, he looked to the citadel, where he knew a barren library within lied in wait. "I think I have enough in me for one last journey..."

* * *

 _In much wisdom is much grief. And he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow..._

* * *

~1~ Passing the Torch

Northampton, England  
April, 1504

Crowley Meratyn turned the silver puzzle cube over and over in his hand, more or less looking through it rather than at it. What it was, where it originated, what purpose it served all eluded him. But it had been passed down through several generations of Ranger commandants, and now it was his turn to try and puzzle it out.

There was a knock on the door, firm and echoing with authority. There was only one man who knocked on the commandant's door so. Crowley tucked the cube away.

"Enter, Halt."

"Which is it?" called a voice from the other side. "Enter or halt?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, man, get in here. And wipe your feet."

Ranger Halt pushed open the door and stepped inside quickly, closing it before the heat of the fire escaped. His green-grey mottled cloak dripped rainwater all over but he dutifully dragged his feet over the mat and proceeded into the office.

"Coffee," said Crowley, jerking his chin at a side table bearing a pot and cups.

"You're too kind." Halt lowered his hood, exposing salt and pepper hair that had recently been hacked to a controllable length by his own saxe knife. He poured himself a cup of the brew, lacing it with a generous dollop of honey before joining his commandant at the table. He sat with a sigh. His short stature made it difficult for him to see much below Crowley's nose from all the paperwork piled upon the desk.

"So? To what do I owe the pleasure of a lovely hard day's ride through the rain and wind and muck?"

"Beans."

"...Beans?"

"Beans. Ranger Aaron was reported sick. Apparently he had some bad beans a few nights past. Hasn't been able to leave the privy. So I sent for you to come here rather than him to you. Saved a little time anyway."

Halt smiled cold enough to crack ice. "I'm flattered."

"Thought you might be. This aught to warm your old bones – a lead has been found on the White Liberator."

Halt sat up. "Aye?"

"He left for France two weeks ago."

Now he deflated. "I see. Gone to hide behind the Assassins' skirts, has he?"

"We've been through this, Halt. He's not an Assassin."

"No, he's their mess. Their screw-up."

"He's confused."

"He's a murderer. And he shall be charged as such."

Crowley gave him a look. "Since when have you _charged_ anyone for anything? Setting you on shit-stirrers is often punishment enough."

"Stop it, Crowley, you're making me blush."

"I'm sending you and the Special Task Force after him," said the commandant, sitting back, hands behind his head. "Find him, bring him back crying like a little girl if you must. Just stop him. Put a few families at rest."

"And while we're at it keep our ears to the ground for anything that might be related to that cube."

Crowley stared. "...How do you know of the—?"

"You study it every chance you get, old friend. And I heard you speak to the archivists a few years ago. I have never laid eyes on it myself but I know it's real."

Crowley knew there was no hiding this. If Halt said he'd overheard, then he'd overheard, although Crowley didn't much appreciate the man spying on him. He was going to have to check the shadows more carefully.

He pulled the unusual cube from his pocket. "It's not like anything I have ever seen."

Halt held out his hand, and the commandant paused before passing it over. "It's been handed down for over two centuries. Came from the south somewhere. Spain, or perhaps further. I don't know why my predecessors kept it, so I continue to."

It was an unusual artifact. One could rotate six faces, and the smaller cubes needed to be aligned in order to form some kind of symbol on each face. Only one face had been solved, and the symbol was unfamiliar. It seemed to be too light for its size, yet there wasn't so much as a scratch on it from at least two hundred years of handling.

"You want me to take it." It wasn't a question.

"I want you to _borrow_ it. It did not come from England, nor anywhere in Britain, I'm sure of it," said Crowley.

"How did it come to the hands of the Corps?"

Crowley reached over and opened a drawer in his desk, pulling out a small leather-bound journal, impressed with an oak leaf. He tossed it over the mound of paper to Halt. "According to this, there was a skirmish off the coast of Portugal in 1258. A Ranger was updating a map there and witnessed a fight between a Spanish galleon and pirates. A small boat from the galleon escaped, and the Ranger, thinking him a deserter, stopped him as he came ashore. The man was fatally wounded, and he only gave the cube to the Ranger before dying." Crowley shrugged. "And here it is."

"So it could be a mere tinker toy with the sole purpose of frustrating people," said Halt, eyebrow arched.

"It may very well be. All the same, I want you to keep your eyes peeled for more than serial-killing shit-stirrers. There are all kinds of strange artifacts in Europe, hidden away but occasionally being found." And by strange he meant magical. Supernatural. Crowley could not believe the reports he'd received from Italy over the past few years. A gold ball that glowed without fire, supposedly granting the bearer uncanny foresight and control over others' minds and bodies. The Apple of Eden, they called it. Pah. Just another relic from some long-dead saint or Apostle, no doubt. No more magical than Crowley's horse.

Halt was turning the cube over and over in his hand, studying the face with the completed symbol. A symbol which was unfamiliar to every historian, linguist and semiotic he'd shown it to.

"Maybe the metal it's made of could be fashioned into other things," said Crowley. "Armour, weapons. A recipe that should not fall into our enemies' hands."

"And with both Templars and Assassins sniffing about, there will be pleasant reunions all around," said Halt. "I think I'll bring sherry."

"I knew you wouldn't let me down." Crowley stood, offering his hand. "Godspeed."

Halt slipped the cube and journal into his pocket and clasped Crowley's forearm firmly. "You too, my friend."

"For what?" asked the commandant curiously. Halt gestured to the heaps of paper on the desk, all needed to be read, organized, categorized, signed, and sent off to some distant reach of the country.

"For this."

Crowley snorted, sour. "Sometimes I wish I could lower the minimum years of service required for a golden oak leaf."

"Ha! You wouldn't have to lower it far, old man." He went to leave but turned back. "You don't need to request an arrest warrant from the mayor. I have one."

" _You_ asked him?"

"No, but I have one."

"...You stole his ring, didn't you?"

"I didn't steal it. I borrowed it without permission and then gave it back."

"Halt, all warrants must be documented."

"I left him a note."

"A _note?_ You left the mayor a _note?_ "

"He's a politician, I'm sure he knows his letters. Now I'm leaving before this rain gets any better."

Halt pulled the door open, pulling up the hood of his mottled cloak as he stepped outside. He closed the door behind him and Crowley sat back down, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair.

Halt may have little use for propriety but he got things done and done well. Crowley just hoped it would never conclude with a noose around his neck.

~ Ʌ ~

Rome, Italy  
June, 1504

Crash!

" _Dammit!_ " Ezio Auditore scowled, snatching up the spilled ink pot and dabbing at the black flower from a recruit appraisal with a cloth. One little scare, and the whole paper was spoiled. But he was never one to give up easily.

After he admitted defeat – and he had to eventually – his chair scrapped across the floor as he stood and tossed the balled parchment into the fire. He glared at the wall, behind which had come the sound that had startled him. If he didn't know better, he would have thought the den was under attack.

"You can drive as much discipline as you want into those two, but you can never drive their rambunctiousness out."

Ezio turned to see the bureau's leader, Mariella, who was leaning against the door frame to the office. She was a petite woman, excellent with horses and infallible in moving around unseen in crowds. Her chestnut hair, streaked with premature grey, was tied back and her robes were muddy from her ride to the den. Lines around her mouth and eyes suggested countless long days spent outdoors, rather than hiding inside where it was cool and safe. She wouldn't have been the only den leader to do so.

Aged as she might seem, there was a time when Ezio would have shown interest in seeing... _more_ of her, so to speak. But he'd long since suppressed the need to act on his adoration – or, as he preferred to call it, respect – for women, whether within or outside of the Brotherhood. To nourish affections within meant distractions. To do so for anyone else meant bringing them into a war they should never have to face.

Besides, Ezio had had his heart broken one too many times.

"You're the grand master, you should put them in line," Mariella said, nodding towards the noise.

"You're the bureau leader, you should put them in muzzles."

"I'd sooner clip a bird's wings. You need their childish antics and you know it, old man."

Ezio's brow furrowed. "Are you here for a reason or are you just going to stand there and insult me?"

She reached into her robes and approached him. "I have my report, mentor." She passed to him a scroll, which he accepted, eyes on her. He preferred listening to reading.

"Well?"

"It is as we feared. The so-called _Lib_ _é_ _rateur Blanc_ is still active and on the move again."

Ezio felt anger uncoil in his gut, and turned away to pace. "So we didn't stop him. It must have been a copycat in Ravenna."

Mariella's hazel eyes followed him. "The man we apprehended was identified as a Roberto Nobelli of San Gimignano. A stonemason who was tired of being a stonemason, evidently."

"But no innocent," Ezio growled, still pacing. "Two murders at least. And it would have been three had we not arrived when we did."

More crashing from the main room. Ezio glared at the wall again, as though he could see through it to the culprits on the other side.

"Mentor, we fear this might be the start of a new movement." Mariella approached the map on the desk. "Declarations of freedom against the Borgias and Templars have been reported here, here, and here." She circled parts of Northern Italy with her finger. "No deaths, but pro-Assassin gangs are making noise under our banner, in our name. And they're being non-too-subtle about it."

"You believe the White Liberator is their Little Peter?" Ezio studied the spots she had indicated, unconsciously stroking the scar that lacerated the right side of his upper lip, which left a gap in his goatee. Mariella shrugged one shoulder.

"It is possible. These people don't seem to understand what the Templars really are, and therefore, what we are. The Liberator's actions encourage them."

"Has anything been done about these gangs?"

"We haven't intervened, hoping that they would lose interest and disperse from lack of attention. It's been a month since the first outbreak in Milan, and has since spread to smaller cities around it. Fortunately, the upheaval caused by the French and Spanish have made their progress slow."

"Good. This is not their war. Send word that these gangs are not to be touched. Any intervention shall be in utmost discretion and only to protect the innocent. We don't need anymore White Liberators."

Mariella bowed slightly. "Yes, mentor."

Ezio let out a breath, brushing back a stray strand of black hair. The rest was tied back behind his head, and not for the first time he thought about getting it cut. He was, after all, in his forties, with silver streaking at his temples. His hairstyle suggested desperate efforts to retain lost years.

He pushed off from leaning on the desk. "Where is he now?"

"I left a party to hold the trail while I reported back to you, mentor. By the looks of it, he's been all over Europe, but has returned to France."

Ezio cursed inwardly. He didn't have time to leave his home country to hound the rat down himself. Cesare Borgia might be imprisoned but Italy was far from restful. He nearly crunched the report in his fist. Culling his anger, he set it on the desk instead.

Countless times over the past few years this "Liberator" had slipped through the Brotherhood's fingers. Countless times he had gotten away with kills of unverified Templars. He moved like one of the Brotherhood, yet his deeds spoke otherwise. Should this ruse or personal crusade expose the fraud he was, the Assassins' name would be smeared in black.

"I will go north. He will not escape us this time. Once he sets foot in Italy..."

"But what of your own investigation?" asked Mariella, blinking. "That...Reliquary you spoke of last month?"

Ezio hesitated. The Reliquary. He'd forgotten about that. An enigma he'd been looking into for months, ever since the discovery of a stash of manuscripts unearthed in Jerusalem. Upon close inspection, they were declared the works of an Assassin who had been a close companion, and right hand man, to the great Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. Unfortunately, Malik Al-Sayf liked to write in riddles and obscure phrases. The last manuscripts were still being translated, but one thing was clear. Malik suspected the Reliquary was related in some way to the Ones Who Came Before, or at the very least, the Apple of Eden. And in such matters, it was vital the Assassins learned all they can, and claim the prize before the Templars even catch a whiff of the scent.

Ezio scowled. Defend the Brotherhood, and stay two steps ahead of the Templars. Two tasks crowning his list of duties, both threatened at the same time.

"If that interpreter worked any slower, he'll be reading the translations over my grave." He sat heavily and ran a hand down his face. Then he began to riffle through the stacks of parchment on his desk. "Lauro should have already delivered the next—"

Raised voices, then a loud bump as something – or someone – hit the wall on the other side.

"That's it." Ezio stood and strode past Mariella into the corridor, before turning to the main room, pinning two young disciples with a look to kill. "How many times do I have to tell you—!?"

"Forgive us, mentor." The pair was in a tangle on the floor. Pedro figured it all out first, grabbing Lauro in a headlock. The smaller man squirmed and thrashed ineffectively. "We were just fooling around."

"Is that so? Because it looks like you're ransacking."

Tables and chairs not occupied by other Assassins had been knocked over in the playful scuffle, books strewn about with scrolls and loose papers. Rugs had been kicked to the side and meditation pillows were scattered all over the floor. More than one potted plant had met its doom in the chaos.

Pedro smiled sheepishly, still half-strangling his friend. He had the look of a dog that had just stolen his master's dinner but still thought it worth the punishment. "He needed a little pick-me-up."

"And he literally picked me up!" Lauro gasped, his crimson cheeks a stark contrast to Pedro's sleeve. "Make him stop."

Ezio's face creased in a frown. Sometimes he thought he'd recruited monkeys instead of Italy's trampled and forgotten people. They needed discipline and experience. Which, of course, wasn't always difficult to acquire...

Pedro drove his knuckles into Lauro's skull, making the younger cry out in protest. "I was just teasing him. See, he's never been with a woman!"

"Get off!" Lauro squirmed, blushing a deeper scarlet.

"Innocent dove."

"Come, come now, play nice," said Ezio at last.

"Aw, must I, mentor?" Pedro stopped, looking up at him imploringly.

The plea was returned with a level stare. "I'm afraid so. Or you'll have me to deal with."

Pedro sighed, then rubbed Lauro's head once more before shoving him away. The smaller youth rolled backwards from the force but quickly got to his feet, standing at attention. Ezio assessed them both, a line between his eyebrows. The two disciples were a mess, hair tussled and robes ruffled.

"I suppose if you've got time to bring this place to ruin, you've already completed your report, Pedro, and set it on my desk," he said.

He saw the tall disciple's eyes flicker.

"Erm...yes, of course," said Pedro. "Signed and sanded."

"Is that so? Because I've been at my desk all morning, and I have seen no such report." Ezio regarded him critically, crossing his arms.

Pedro swallowed. "Oh. Oh, _that_ desk. I thought you meant the other desk."

"What other desk?"

"The one...in the other room..." He shifted, unable to hold his mentor's gaze.

"You have a novice writing it for you again, don't you?"

"How...? Of course not!" said Pedro, trying to sound outraged. "I'd never do such a thing, mentor. I...I..."

He fell silent at Ezio's look, then swallowed.

"Well...maybe there's someone editing it...And writing the conclusion...And—"

"Enough." Ezio refrained from sighing or rubbing his eyes, as much as his exasperation wanted to. "And you!"

Lauro, who was trying not to smirk at his friend's discomfort, flinched and stood straighter.

"You were supposed to go and fetch a certain something. Remember what that was?"

"Yes, mentor!"

"Excellent. Do you remember what you were supposed to do with it?"

Lauro deflated with dread. "Yes, mentor."

"...Did you remember _to_ _do_ what you were supposed to do with it?"

The disciple slowly reached into his robes, bringing out a rumpled, crunched envelope. "No, mentor. Um..." He very stiffly held it out, and Ezio accepted it with exaggerated grace.

"Very good, Assassin. I smell promotion in the air."

Lauro blushed brilliantly, and Ezio could hear chuckles and snickers from all around.

"Forgive me, mentor."

The grand master shook his head, then beckoned them both to his office. "In."

They obeyed, ready to be flogged raw by their mentor's vocal cords. Standing at attention once more, they watched Ezio close the door. Mariella had taken her leave.

Ignoring the men for now, Ezio sat at his desk, broke the seal of the envelope and eased out the wrinkled paper inside. He smoothed it out with obvious care, knowing it would make Lauro uncomfortable, before reading.

Minutes drew on. The disciples held their stillness and silence admirably, for they knew that, even if they had at least started their tasks, partial completion was punishable by humiliation, dealt by their fellow apprentices. Only their mentor could save them now.

Ezio was impassive as he read the latest translation of Malik Al-Sayf's work, slowly and carefully, digesting each word and rooting out any ambiguity. There was, as usual, enough to set him grinding his teeth, but he got the gist of what Malik was trying to say. The old _dai_ believed the Reliquary to be somewhere "many days and nights across the sea of pirates, in the land of the Raśna." Ezio had no idea who the Raśna were, but that was easy enough to find out.

He sat up straighter, the only indication of mounting excitement. At last, a location! After pages and pages of translated notes, abandoned theories and irrelevant ramblings (which included Malik's tolerated annoyance to a certain "novice," whom he did not name), Ezio had a clue he could work with.

But that wasn't all. Malik's irritation came through his use of words, his own slow translations of even older texts costing him precious time. But it was time well spent, for he also discovered the existence of some kind of key required to access the Reliquary. Or perhaps it was activate. Ezio's translator wasn't sure.

 _So where is the key?_

He skimmed the last paragraph, his excitement curdling. " _Found at last... A puzzle that requires two hands... I have passed it on to Alta_ _ï_ _r, may he have better luck... My search has come to an end... Trouble at Masyaf, I must go..._ "

Ezio turned the paper over, then read the paragraph again, slower, filling in the holes.

"Is this it?" he demanded.

Lauro jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. "Yes, mentor. Ahmed said there were a few more unrelated pages, concerning Malik Al-Sayf's guardianship of the Brotherhood in Altaïr Ibn... Ibn-La... um, the grand master's absence. The last date was..." He pondered a few seconds. "1226, I believe. Mentor, what was he talking about?"

Ezio ignored him, running his hands over his hair and releasing a breath. So a dead end after all. Whenever something headed Altaïr's way, it always became frustratingly elusive, because he had a habit of making information difficult to find. His Codex, for one, which had taken Ezio years to compile...

 _There's nothing for it, then. The Reliquary will have to wait. I shall focus my energy on the Liberator...but perhaps I should bring the Apple..._

Ezio sat up, inhaled deeply, then relaxed and pulled a fresh, crisp sheet of parchment towards himself. "You two will join me in heading north tomorrow."

He could almost feel their excitement. A mission with the grand master? If this wasn't a way to prove themselves, nothing was.

He hid a smile as he dipped the quill into the ink pot, to start the recruit appraisal anew. "Of course, I can't _really_ allow you to come unless that report is finished—"

"Consider it done, mentor!" said Pedro, back ramrod straight, right fist over his heart. Lauro copied the action, barely containing a grin.

"Very well." Ezio began the appraisal. "...You may go now."

The disciples hastily made the gesture of respect once more before walking out, trying to be quick without looking it.

* * *

 **Disclaimers: I do not own anything to do with Assassin's Apprentice or Ranger's Creed. Or...oh, you know what I mean. The prologue scene and dialogue, up to and including the point where Altaïr says, "I wish I knew," as well as the quote at the end of the prologue, belongs to Ubisoft, from Assassin's Creed: Revelations. I also do not own the Rubik's Cube, which is what the artifact Halt now possesses is related to.**

* * *

 **Thank you to Dragonflame247 and whentheresawill for expressing their interest and giving me spurring I needed to get this story started! Although that was...almost three years ago... *pulls bag of shame over head***


	2. Reflections

**Recap: England – Crowley gave Halt a 'puzzle cube' to investigate, and charged him and the Special Task Force to go after the White Liberator. Italy, six weeks later – Ezio caught wind of the Liberator as well and set out north from Rome in hopes of intercepting him.**

* * *

~2~ Reflections

 _June 12_ _th_ _, 1504. Week six of our assignment to apprehend the murder suspect known as the White Liberator. Our tracking has led us to the French city of Lyon, but the trail grows ever colder. No deaths here have been reported with the target's modus operandi_ —

Will Treaty's elbow was jostled, a spattering of ink ruining his otherwise immaculate script. He frowned, setting the quill down before another mess could be made in his journal. Perhaps he should wait until he was in the inn room before updating their progress.

The witless offender had already wandered away to find another tankard, watched closely by Halt, who sat at the next table over. Will looked away before he could meet his former teacher's eye. For this entire trip a cold veil had hovered between them, but fortunately they had enough company to mask the tension. Or so he thought.

"So blue, Will," said Alyss, royal courier and the young Ranger's betrothed. She slid closer to him at the table, slipping one warm hand into his. She lowered her voice. "You're not still mad at him, are you?"

Will looked away, feigning interest in a bowl of fruit.

 _Northampton, six weeks ago..._

"The White Liberator?" Will tightened the girth of Tug's saddle, feeling heat radiate off the shaggy little horse's belly. Tug shifted, the scraping of hooves augmented by the long corridor of stables. Will stroked him and he stilled. "I heard he was in Italy."

"So the rumours said," Halt replied. His back was to Will, tending to his own horse. "But you've seen him here with your own eyes. I don't think he really left England before now. Unless he's learned how to fly and cross Europe in a week."

The young Ranger frowned, combing out a knot in Tug's mane with his fingers. "But there have been reports from the south. The Assassins—" He stopped himself too late. Halt turned, scowling.

"I told you to avoid them, lad. Nothing good ever came from consorting with the Assassins."

"They might be valuable sources for information," said Will, crisper than he meant. He wouldn't meet Halt's grey gaze. "It was because of them we stopped the growing rebellion in Worcestershire."

"We only learned that because one of them killed Ranger Toryn for _speaking_ with a Templar. Their war is not ours, Will. It is far too old for us to meddle in."

"So in hunting down the Liberator, we're not meddling?" said Will blandly.

Halt tugged on a strap so hard, his horse snorted and stamped in protest. The Ranger loosened the buckle, stroking Abelard's neck in apology. "Crowley is convinced the Liberator is not an Assassin. Not a real one. But he is a murderer, in our jurisdiction. He's fair game."

Will was silent for a spell, trying not to get angry with his former teacher. Ever since he was fifteen, when Halt took him under his wing, he'd been part of something big. Rangers were the eyes and ears of England, undercover enforcers of the law and keepers of the peace. They combined classical methods with raw intellect to compile evidence against those seeking to harm the people and their rulers. Why couldn't Rangers use the phantoms that were Assassins to gain more intelligence? Halt claimed the Ranger Corps was neutral grounds. But if they were discreet, the Templars, the Assassins' oldest enemies, would never know of any collaboration, surely.

"The victims had crosses carved into their chests," said Will, petting Tug's nose.

"And?"

"The Liberator marked them as Templars."

"That doesn't make them so."

Will finally looked to Halt. "Assassins don't do that. Not only do they make _sure_ their targets are Templars, they kill and then they leave. They don't mutilate the body."

"I know, Will. I have come across more than one of their kills."

"So what if this man _is_ part of their war, just not as he appears to be?" His voice raised a little. "Maybe he's a Templar working to blacken the Assassins' ledger."

"Or he's just a raving lunatic whose radical views of the conflict need to be terminated." Halt finished saddling Abelard and made sure he had all the supplies he needed. "Does it matter either way? He killed three men. That's the bottom line."

"I understand that," Will growled. "But you're the one saying we shouldn't meddle in their underground war. This is meddling."

"Are you suggesting we let him go?" Halt gave him a dangerous stare.

"I'm suggesting we should find out more about him before we turn him into a pincushion," said Will, hefting his quiver and longbow. Despite the age of the firearms, the Rangers had never given up on their traditional weapons. "Our kills are just as distinctive."

"To do that, we need to _find_ him, don't we?" said Halt coldly.

"Do my ears deceive me? Are the great Halt O'Carrick and renowned Will Treaty _squabbling_?" Another Ranger strode into the stables. Taller than his fellows, Gilan rested either arm on their shoulders. Halt shrugged him off.

"We weren't 'squabbling.' We were debating."

"Politicians debate, Halt. You two were squabbling." Gilan patted Will on the cheek, making him scowl and turn away. Chuckling, he then walked over to a stall, where a bay horse was sticking her head over the door, nickering a greeting. The Ranger stroked her velvety nose. "Hello, girl."

"So you received our message in time," said Halt. "How unfortunate."

"Someone has to be there to remind you every morning what we're doing," said Gilan. "You know how forgetful you've become."

"Like how I keep forgetting to whip this crop across your arse." The older Ranger advanced, brandishing the crop, but Gilan leaped out of the way. He put his rear to Blaze's stall door, staying put even when the horse lipped at his hair.

Will ignored them, checking Tug's hooves for rocks again just to look busy. Tug swished his tail, looking at him with one large brown eye.

With a final threatening feint with the riding crop, Halt tossed it aside, leading Abelard out. Will had little option but to follow.

"I don't want to hear anything more about Assassins, understand?" muttered Halt over his shoulder. Will grunted in response, and received a fiery glare for his insolence. " _Do you understand me?_ "

"Yes, Halt."

"Good." He tightened Abelard's saddle girth and mounted, heading for the gates and leaving his companions to catch up on their own.

Will gazed sourly where Halt had disappeared, still following on foot. He didn't realize how heavy his boots were until Gilan was suddenly at his shoulder.

"Don't worry, mate. This will be over before you know it."

Words caught in Will's throat as he mounted, Tug tossing his head impatiently. Gilan thumped him on the shoulder before urging Blaze into a trot, hooves clacking and sparking across the cobbles.

Will nearly followed suit when he abruptly turned in the saddle. He thought he saw a flash of white disappearing over the stable's roof, but as he stared, he saw it again – it was just a flag, rising and falling with a breath of wind. A line appeared between his eyebrows, but he faced forwards and nudged Tug's sides, leaving Northampton after his companions.

 _Present..._

Will felt pressure on his hand, and blinked when he realized he had been lost in his reverie too long. The sounds of the inn's patrons returned to his ears in a rush.

"Forgive me," he said with a small smile, gently squeezing Alyss' hand in return. "I tire of this assignment, that's all."

She released a breath, looking down at his journal. It was over half full, the used pages crammed with notes and observations. He saw her lips tug at the sides.

"So sharp and graceful."

He knew she was recollecting the moment she'd seen his first entry years ago – his penmanship could be bested by a chicken that had stepped in ink. But with every day he got better, steadier, the words laid out straight across the page rather than tilted up or down. Now he wrote like a scribe.

"You should get some sleep," he said.

"You too. Come on." She stood and tugged at his arm, giving good nights to the other members of their company. Will managed to grab his journal before he was tugged away from the table.

Their room had two beds, and they would share one while Horace, the company's man-at-arms, had the other. Despite being agents of the king of England, they couldn't so much as hang onto the coattails of luxury on their missions, not even with a courier in their midst. But Will knew Halt preferred it this way. Their progress was less conspicuous when they weren't gorging themselves on fine food and drink in every city their quarry led them through.

Will unfastened his green and grey mottled cloak, a garment that would render him virtually invisible in the woods, should he hold still enough. He hung it on a peg on the wall, then sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off his boots and wiggling his toes. Alyss climbed up behind him and began to massage his shoulders. He tensed at the pressure burrowing into his muscles, but her hands did their magic, as always, and he relaxed.

"You've got to stop giving him the cold shoulder," she said, moving her thumbs closer to his spine to knead out the knots there.

"I'm not—"

"Hush. You can't lie to me. Six weeks, Will. It isn't healthy."

"I...I just don't understand his animosity towards the Assassins," he muttered, screwing his eyes shut as her hands found a particularly deep knot in his back. "They're not our enemies."

"They're not our friends either."

"They could be," Will insisted. "We just have to talk to them."

"I don't think King Henry would be much appreciative if his elite vigilantes collaborated with an order older than Britain. Remember Ranger Toryn."

"A misunderstanding," said Will. "You of all people should recognize that."

She gave his shoulders an extra hard squeeze, making him wince. "Toryn was a good man. He didn't deserve his fate."

"The Assassins thought he was giving Templars information."

"We never found out if he wasn't."

"We never found out if he was. How do we know if _he_ knew that man was a Templar?"

Alyss sighed and stopped massaging him. He felt disappointment as well as relief, reaching back to take her wrist. She scooted forward, sliding her legs off the bed and tucking up to him. Will rested his brow against hers, closing his eyes and simply enjoying her presence.

"Speak to Halt tomorrow," she breathed. "Promise me."

He filled his lungs before slowly emptying them, grasping her hand in reply.

~ Ʌ ~

Ezio watched with growing amusement as Pedro failed, yet again, to start a fire. The flint and steel were seasoned. The combination of kindling and grass was ideal. The problem was Lauro.

From the depths of his white hood, Ezio saw his every move. The first time, Lauro walked by with a saucepan of water, full to the brim, which splashed out over the spark Pedro had just struck. Disgruntled, the older disciple made a fresh, dry pile elsewhere, only for Lauro to accidentally on purpose air out his blanket by waving it towards Pedro, the wind it created killing the fire.

Now, with attempt number three, Pedro was using his hands to shelter the baby flame, gently blowing on it to encourage it to grow. But then Lauro approached with his arms full of sticks. He tripped over nothing and kicked dirt over the fire, snuffing it out.

Pedro threw the flint at Lauro. " _Knock it off!_ "

"I'm just setting up the rest of camp!" He dropped the firewood and cowered as Pedro stood, towering over him. "Get away from me!"

Pedro wrapped both arms around his chest, picking him up and carrying him towards the stream. Lauro squirmed.

"No, _no!_ "

"You must be punished!"

"Mentor, help me!"

"Boys, you promised to keep this nonsense to a minimum," said Ezio tonelessly, inspecting a worn seam in his glove.

"'Everything is permitted!'" Pedro crowed. "Besides, he put grapes in my boots last week."

Ezio raised an eyebrow. "So?"

" _So_ , they got full of ants!"

Lauro chortled evilly, then thrashed as his friend started taking him towards the stream again. "No, I'm sorry, _I'm sorry!_ "

"You throw him in there, and you have to wear his robes tomorrow," Ezio growled at Pedro. That made him pause again. It would be very uncomfortable to wear the small man's trousers dry, let alone wet.

Scowling, Pedro set him down. Or more accurately, dropped him on his butt. The younger disciple scrambled away, hastily scooping the firewood back into his arms to set off to the side neatly.

Under their mentor's watchful eye, they finished setting up their camp, which was nestled in a grove more than fifty miles north of Rome. Three horses were picketed nearby, nibbling at grass, their contented rumbles a consoling sound to Ezio. He had taken care to ensure they were comfortable after the long day's travel.

Pedro had finally gotten a fire going, and kept throwing warning looks Lauro's way as he fed it larger sticks. But the younger disciple was focused on preparing a meal, humming to himself. Ezio shook his head minutely. They were good men. Where they lacked in public dignity and the potential for leadership, they made up for with optimism, perseverance, and loyalty. They fought well alone, but together they were untouchable. Even Ezio, with nearly three decades of combat experience – more years than theirs combined – was tested when he joined in the morning routines. Although he'd shared his speculations with no one, he failed to doubt they could best him in a fight if he wasn't their mentor.

As he began to resew the failed seam on his glove, Ezio mused on how his life would have been like had he not been promoted to mentor of the Italian Brotherhood. It was wearisome, so say the least, for even with his upbringing as a noble, he hadn't command such veneration before becoming an Assassin. And sometimes, he felt he didn't deserve that veneration. He wasn't the only one to have been introduced into this war through pain.

Ezio looked to Pedro, in his mid-twenties and matching the master Assassin in size and strength. He'd been driven from his home city after being accused of sodomy and manipulation. When he saved three Assassin novices in Bologna from a Templar ambush, wielding nothing but a broom, he was welcomed into the ranks with open arms. His competence with a sword and adept ability to hide in plain sight quickly earned him higher ranks, and only youth and inexperience hindered his progress.

Not much younger was Lauro, small and lean but one of the best climbers Ezio had ever met. He'd learned to scale walls and buildings not for mischievous reasons like his mentor, but for his job as a courier boy. One day he was caught ferrying messages between two families Templars knew to be Assassin allies. Lauro was only a messenger – he, like many civilians, was blind to the conflict between the two orders – and yet his little sister had suffered for it. Cesare Borgia himself had had fun with her before killing her slowly. Consumed by rage, Lauro nearly stormed the Vatican with a knife before "the Fox," an Assassin and Ezio's friend, subdued him and taught him his folly.

When Lauro and Pedro became bunk mates, they took to each other like birds to the wind, and it was rare either were sent on a mission without the other to watch his back.

"Mentor... Mentor?"

Ezio blinked, startling. "Mm?"

"Are you not hungry?" Lauro gestured at the food he'd set beside him, and the older Assassin realized he was still holding the needle and thread he'd used to repair his glove.

"Oh. Yes, thank you."

Ravenous, he nevertheless held himself in check, eating his portion slowly and chewing more than necessary so he would feel fuller longer. Lauro ate normally, but Pedro practically inhaled his dinner.

"Come on," he said through a mouthful of bread. He set his plate aside and picked up his sword, with which he poked Lauro's side. His shadow danced long and spidery on the ground. "You'll get flabby."

Lauro grumbled into his apple and cheese and did not get up. Even with Pedro's pestering he ate at his own pace until he finished every crumb. Then he set his plate on top of Pedro's to clean later, brushed off debris from his robes, and made a show of searching for his weapon. Pedro huffed impatiently, waiting not a second longer when Lauro finally drew his sword from its scabbard. Their blades met, and the duel began.

Ezio watched them critically, accessing faults and noting improvements. Pedro needed to move his feet a little more, and Lauro had to be a bit more aggressive.

A few times he contemplated joining them. But something more than age kept him planted on the ground that night. It was not physical weariness that burdened him, but mental.

He'd left Machiavelli in charge of the Brotherhood in his absence, knowing he would keep a sharp eye on Cesare Borgia while Italy focused on the occupation of the Spanish and French armies. With the budding warlord behind bars, the winds of fortune had swept to the Assassins' favour, and Pope Julius II was straightening out affairs in the Vatican. But even with Italy's fate diverged from the manacles of the Borgias, Ezio's work as the grand master was far from finished. Always there were the strikes of the Templars to counter. Always there were fresh recruits to find and train, ships to commission for spreading their creed to the New World. The Brotherhood faced persecution, condemnation, and outright hostility from those who did not understand their creed. If not lies spread by their enemies, then it was from ignorance. The Assassins had nothing to fight back with but a hilt without a blade. They could not silence those they sought to protect. It was a balancing game that easily tipped from one side to the other. And right now, it was being prodded by the one known as the White Liberator.

Ezio chewed harder than necessary on his slice of bread. He always pressed into his recruits that one must be utterly certain a target was a liability to mankind before eliminating him. If possible, brief a superior on evidence before taking further action. If the Assassin's own life was in danger, they had the right to defend themselves, of course, but having the power over the life of another was not something Ezio encouraged his recruits to revel. It was to be taken hold of with grim discipline and responsibility. And killing an innocent was strictly against their creed, a violation to a tenant.

And that was why they hunted this "Liberator" now.

Who was he? Why has he done what he did? Was he even a he? Next to nothing had been uprooted on this phantom in white. He had the skills and garb of an Assassin, which led Ezio to believe he was a traitor, a wannabe, or perhaps a deserter. Something in his gut told him it wasn't the first, and every man and woman who respectfully hung up the hood and wrist blade were both monitored and protected. So did this man aspire to be an Assassin, and was only trying to get their attention?

Ezio heard a shout and perked in alarm, only to deflate upon seeing his two companions rolling around on the ground like dogs, swords abandoned. This wasn't unusual behaviour and he didn't chastise them for it. But they were being noisy, and Ezio was getting a headache.

"Alright, that's enough."

They stopped immediately, flushed and panting as they stood at attention.

"Forgive us, mentor, but Lauro stepped on my foot."

"It was an accident!"

"No, it wasn't."

"Yes, it was."

"No—"

"Yes!"

Ezio put his fingers to his temple, and their mouths clicked shut. "Pedro, you take first watch. Wake me in three hours."

The disciple nodded, picking up his sword and blanket before moving away from the hindering light of the fire. When he was consumed by darkness, Ezio crawled into his sleeping roll, sword close at hand. He heard Lauro moving around, cleaning up the plates and putting away extra food. Dirt was tossed onto the fire to diminish it to a few burning embers, and then he, too, rolled into his blankets. But then he gasped, coughing and scrambling to his feet.

"You bastard, Pedro!"

Ezio rolled onto his back, watching Lauro chuck his pillow over to where his friend had vanished.

"Smelling salts? _Really?!_ "

Pedro could be heard chortling in the darkness. Ezio simply rolled back onto his side.

 _Oh, boy..._

* * *

 **A disclaimer I forgot: Pedro and Lauro are OCs strawberrywine17 and I created. Pedro was hers and she gave me permission to use him however I wish... Didn't mean for that to sound dirty.**


	3. Leap of Faith

**It's been seven weeks? *groans, pushes face along the floor* I'm just gonna post this 'cause screw it.**

 **Recap: In Lyon, Halt and the Special Task Force are searching for clues leading them to the White Liberator, a murder suspect who has so far hit multiple English and French cities. Tensions between Halt and Will continue.**

* * *

~3~ Leap of Faith

 _Gilan must be getting a head cold_ , Halt mused, lips pursed, one eye open to regard the younger man. He was sprawled on the other bed, one arm hanging off and his mouth wide open, emitting the most ghastly of hog sounds Halt had ever heard.

He pulled his pillow over his head to try and muffle the noise, but a hotcake would have been more effective. If he rolled Gilan onto his side, the Ranger would only wake up.

 _Which wouldn't be so bad._ Still, Halt endured another hour or so, until he saw a grey dawn peep through the shutters. Stretching out stiffened joints, he then dressed and armed himself, keeping his longbow unstrung but ensuring his throwing knife and longer saxe knife were honed to cut shadows. He pulled up the hood of his green-grey mottled cloak; it wouldn't conceal him in the city streets as it would in the forest, but he'd seen the bleak weather outside. He then tugged on his boots and left the room.

Gilan's snores did not follow him, for he would have woken up at the soft sounds Halt caused while dressing, but he did not get out of bed either. Halt didn't mind, wanting time alone with his thoughts. Yet when he spotted the door of Will's room, he stopped as though he'd walked into it.

Stone-faced, he revealed nothing of his inner turmoil to the walls around him. He nearly tapped his fingers against the door, hard enough for only the trained ear of a Ranger to hear. But something stopped him, and he let his arm fall, striding down the stairs and out of the inn.

Despite summer's imminence, dawn nipped at his skin, making him draw his cloak tighter about himself. The stench of the Saône was underlined with the metallic promise of rain. Upon reaching the river's shores, Halt looked out to _la c_ _athédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste_ _,_ squatting on the opposite bank. Up and down the promenade, stalls and shops were opening for business. On the wind drifted the scent of fresh bread, but Halt ignored his grumbling stomach and walked the other way, one with the early risers of Lyon.

Streets of damp cobbles vanished underfoot as the steel of the sky gradually silvered, not permitting the sun to shine through. Yet it warmed, and the air grew humid. Uncomfortable, Halt found a place to sit, on the edge of a water fountain's basin.

No one else was in the courtyard. Even so, Halt looked surreptitiously at shadows, doorways and windows before pulling out the puzzle cube bestowed upon him by Crowley. Like the Ranger commandant, he was befuddled to its purpose. He'd tried to solve it – turning the faces to make the lines etched on the smaller cubes' faces align with each other, without changing the side that had already been solved – but with no luck. He could have sworn those lines changed on their own. But that was impossible. Wasn't it?

A scream. Halt perked, head whipping towards the sound. It was a child's scream, and he quickly evaluated it. High-pitched, short, and young. Probably six or seven, and he couldn't tell if it was male or female. And it was definitely of fear, not happiness or glee. What kind of fear? Was the child being attacked, or had they discovered something?

Halt was already running down the street as these thoughts coursed through his mind. But he was not the first to arrive at the scene. Several people had congealed around something on the ground. He could not see any children, and feared it was a child they were staring at. Halt gently pushed his way through the whispering crowd until he had a clear view.

It was a corpse, thankfully not the child's. But it was still alarming to see, for it wore the robes of a bishop. The murmuring worsened. Halt's French wasn't prime, but he made out most of the words.

"Who would murder a man of the cloth?"

"Did you see anyone?"

"I can't believe this..."

"It was the _Lib_ _é_ _rateur Blanc._ "

Halt straightened, turning to the familiar voice. "Will?"

The young Ranger was but feet away, staring with hard eyes at the body. Those eyes, he noted, bore dark rings beneath them. He mustn't have slept well.

Will met his gaze. "It was him. Look at the wound."

The older man obeyed, noticing for the first time that where scarlet seeped through the mantle, there was no hole in the fabric. Halt knelt and pulled down the collar, a pale chest gradually being exposed. Tugging further elicited a gasp from the crowd – the cross of the Templar order, gouged into the bishop's flesh. The lack of blood clotting told Halt it had been done postmortem.

Halt straightened, impassive, to look at Will. They locked gazes again, but then Halt's eyes caught a flash of white over the other Ranger's shoulder. He saw a hooded man turn and stride away.

"Will." He stepped over the corpse, his former apprentice turning to see what he'd seen. And then they were both shoving people out of the way in pursuit of the figure in white.

For a while, the Rangers were neck and neck, seeing ivory robes snap around corners, barely keeping him in sight. But they could tell their quarry was covering ground much quicker.

"Go, Will!" Halt barked. His lungs were old, but Will's were not, and it would be foolish to hold him back when Halt had faith in his skills.

The younger man did not object, surging ahead of him. Halt would follow as best he could, and he hoped Will would somehow shepherd the White Liberator back his way.

* * *

Adrenaline urged him faster, but Will kept his own pace, knowing that exhausting himself for the chance of catching up was folly. He had to wait for the Liberator to tire, or else corner himself.

Endless streets disappeared behind them, making him feel hopelessly lost. People scattered before him and his target, crying out angrily as he shoved them aside or knocked over their wares. Had it been mid-morning or later, the Liberator would have vanished in the thicker crowds. It made Will wonder – why make a kill so early in the day?

And then why remain to be noticed?

He was so stricken by the thought, he almost overshot the alley the Liberator had darted into. Skidding on the cobbles, Will followed despite the narrow darkness, leaping over debris and garbage. To his dismay, the Liberator had gained a few metres on him.

Will was starting to lag. At a slower pace, he could run for miles. But this, coupled with the growing despair that his quarry was simply more fit, cast an anchor behind him to drag along.

 _No! Must—stop—him!_

At a junction, the killer turned left, and Will followed seconds later, only to slide to a halt. A dead end, and the Liberator was gone.

"Where...?" _Idiot!_ He looked up just in time to see his target's robes vanish over the edge of the roof. Of course. The man moved like a spider, like an Assassin.

But Will could not. Not that well, anyway. Cursing, he looked around for another way up, and spotted a fire ladder a short distance back. He darted towards it and leaped as high as he could, skipping the bottom rungs.

It creaked and groaned in protest, and Will grasped for window sills and flaws in the brickwork whenever the rungs seemed they would fail. But eventually he made it to the roof and pulled himself up. His hood shielded his eyes as it began to rain at last, and he quickly spotted the white figure hopping from rooftop to rooftop, far ahead now.

Before his legs could start to relax and bind, Will surged back into a run, reckless in his haste to regain ground. Shingles slid underfoot, and at times he felt he was running on ice rather than rooftops. He climbed onto higher buildings and dropped onto smaller, holding his breath as he passed through streams of chimney smoke. And it was to his elation when he realized he was catching up: the Liberator had cornered himself at a building surrounded by gaps of the streets too far to jump across. He'd then had to retrace his steps to follow the next row of roofs, and that gave Will several metres. He could now make out details of the killer's robes, hear his boots crack over shingles and tiles.

"Only a guilty man runs so fast!" Will called, to no response. He considered stopping, stringing his bow and putting an arrow through the meat of the man's calf. It wouldn't kill him, only end this game.

But then the Liberator jumped.

Will gave a shout as the man vanished over the edge. They were four stories up! He reached where his quarry had disappeared, looking down onto the street and expecting to see him sprawled on the cobbles. Instead he saw him clamber out of a cart of hay and keep running.

Will gaped, struck dumb by the bold daring. Then he shook himself. The cart didn't look far. There was plenty of room to land. But his legs locked. He saw the Liberator getting farther and farther away. If he lost him, he would never find him again.

Closing his eyes, the Ranger took a deep breath – and jumped.

The takeoff was smooth. He spread his arms, a bird opening its wings. His cloak billowed out and up like a green sail to carry him on the wind. He automatically swung his legs forward until he saw only clouds. He weighed nothing, and surely would never touch the ground again.

Then the sound of rushing deafened him to all else. His stomach was left in the sky he plunged from and he could not breathe. He expected the solid cobbles to dash his life away, punishment for his foolhardiness. But then—

 _Whump._

He bounced a little on his rear, hay pricking his hands, his nostrils filled with its musky scent. His breath returned at last, and he gasped for it greedily, heart racing, exhilaration nearly bringing him to laughter.

That was amazing! Charging at Death only to duck beneath its skeletal hands and dodge its black wings before darting away. Will's legs shook as he clambered out of the hay cart, golden straws sticking out of his hair and catching in his clothes. The thrill lent him strength, and the chase resumed. The fall had seemed an eternity, and yet the White Liberator was still within his sights. Will was the falcon chasing the dove through the birches. He would not escape.

Back in the alleyways, the Liberator began to slow. Perhaps he thought he'd evaded his pursuer? Perhaps he'd hurt himself. Either way, Will had him – he'd cornered himself again, and this time, there were no hand- or footholds to carry him up and way.

Will blocked the exit, breathing heavily, tugging his unstrung longbow from the retaining straps on his back. He set the bottom tip on the top of his boot and bent the bow until he could slip the loop of the drawstring into the cradle. The sun broke through the clouds at last, throwing his shadow before him and casting the rain in gold. He set an arrow and aimed it at his quarry.

"It is over!" he panted. "By order of his majesty the king of England, lay down your arms."

The White Liberator turned to him, head lowered so Will could not see his eyes beneath the cowl. An ivory bandana concealed his face from the nose down. He had steel spaulders, greaves and vambraces, and no doubt something protected his chest beneath his robes. But he would know the power of a longbow, and wouldn't like his chances.

Slowly, he unbuckled the belt bearing his sword and pistol, leaving only a black sash about his waist, and dropped it on the ground. His right arm reached around to his left side, behind his back, and a knife was pulled from a hidden sheath there. From both boots emerged two more knives, which joined the other weapons on the ground. And then the Liberator stood still.

Will did not lower his bow, even though his palms dampened and a bead of sweat came perilously close to kissing his eye. His mouth was dry. Not from exertion, but from fear.

The Liberator began to approach, footfalls silent. "You do not understand."

"Stop!" Will barked, aiming at the man's chest and drawing fully. He kept coming.

"You do not see."

"I said stop!"

"You are blind." The Liberator was much taller than Will, and so he was able to see that he had a patch on his right eye. His voice was silky and spiced with Spanish.

The Ranger aimed at his heart. "Stop or I will shoot!"

"What will make you see?"

He was now but feet away. Will would have no proof this man was the murderer if he killed him. Witnesses were not enough, and neither he nor Halt had actually seen him commit the crime. The Liberator would have to confess in court.

"Blind."

Several things happened at once. A cracking sound behind Will made him jump, shattering his focus. A hidden blade flashed at the Liberator's wrist and he lunged forward as a blinding cloud engulfed them both. Will saw a shadow plunge from above just before he was flattened on his front by a heavy weight, air driven from his lungs and pain flaring through his back and shoulders. Dazed, he could do nothing, see nothing, only hear the sound of struggle through the smoke screen. He tried to inhale, but the fumes made him cough, his eyes watering as he rolled onto his side.

He heard fists contacting flesh. Grunts of pain and effort. Breaking skin and bruising bones. No words or shouts, just a struggle that ended with the hissing of a blade and a bloody gargle. A body collapsed. Footsteps rushed down the alley, swiftly lost to hearing.

Will waited for the smoke to dissipate, taking small sips of air and wiping his eyes. When he could breathe without coughing, he sat up and looked around.

The Liberator was gone. His sword, knives and pistol were gone too. All that remained was a corpse. The corpse of an Assassin.

The white robes were unmistakable, clearly a template for the Liberator's own. Now they were splashed with scarlet, a wound in the man's throat oozing. He was slumped against a stack of crates, head back, hood slipping off to expose the slack jaw and eyes that were still open.

He looked young. Not much older than Will. Now but another victim notched into the White Liberator's blade.

Will crawled over to him, checking for a pulse even though he knew it was hopeless. Sitting back on his heels, he looked him over. This was the closest he'd ever been to a member of the Brotherhood. It was not how he'd imagined his first encounter.

He closed the man's eyes. "Be at peace," he said softly.


	4. Hidden Blade

**Recap: Halt and Will spot the White Liberator with his latest kill. Will pursues him, corners him, only to be blinded by a smoke screen. When he can see again he finds only a dead Assassin, his quarry having fled.**

* * *

~4~ Hidden Blade

Will stood to leave, knowing that being caught with a body would put a dampener on the mission. But then something on the Assassin's left forearm snagged his attention. He crouched again and gently turned the man's arm so he could have a better look at the mechanism strapped to the inner side of the vambrace. No, it was _part_ of the vambrace. Frowning, he tried to pull it off to get a better look, but with the sounds of turning gears and rasp of metal on metal, a blade shot out of an inner sheath, right at the Assassin's wrist. Will yelped and let go just in time, but the blade cut the man's hand before darting back inside the vambrace.

Will stared. Ingenious. A blade hidden in plain sight. Curiosity overrode his inward repulsion and he gently loosened the straps of the vambrace before pulling it off. He had only glanced inside briefly when he heard a sound.

His head whipped up, scanning the eaves above. The sun had ducked behind the clouds again and there were no shadows.

It might have been a rat scuttling through the garbage. A bird in the gutters. But Will was taking no chances. With one last apologetic look at the fallen Assassin, he darted off, seeking the Saône. He would make his way back to the inn from there.

He was soaked by the time he pushed open the door of the inn, the Ranger cloak only able to repel so much rain. He'd taken extra care that he wasn't being followed, and so over an hour had past since he'd last seen Halt.

He had a quick look around the taproom before lowering his hood and making his way over to where Horace was eating a bountiful breakfast. Gilan and Alyss shared his table but touched nothing. They perked when Will showed his face.

"Top of the morning," the Ranger said, too cheerfully.

"Mmph numph umphga!" Horace replied, mouth full of bacon and eggs. He swallowed. "We were just about to look for you!"

Will looked at the dishes on the table, most not yet half finished. "I can see that."

"Where's Halt?" Gilan demanded. "I heard him get up early, but—"

Speaking too soon, the door opened a second time, emitting another green-clad Englishman. Halt lowered his hood as Will had done, but he had no smile for his companions.

"Where is he?" he barked, closing the distance between him and his two former apprentices quickly for someone his size. The taproom was full of people enjoying morning café and breakfast, and paid the foreigners no mind.

"Who?" asked Horace, crêpe forgotten.

"The White Liberator," Halt hissed, making the others flinch. Will, however, looked at his feet. He hated failing his former teacher.

"He...he got away."

Halt flared, the Irish accent of his childhood slipping into his words. "How could you let that happen?"

"Halt," said Alyss. She was not fazed as the old Ranger turned his fiery eyes towards her. "Let him speak."

Will shuffled, cheeks warm. "I almost had him. He was cornered, had nowhere to go. I told him to disarm himself, and he did, but..." He was conscious of the wrist blade hidden behind his back, his cloak hiding the way he held his arm. "An Assassin found us. He threw a smoke bomb and then landed on me. Dropped from the rooftops, like the stories say." He frowned. "I don't know why he didn't finish me off. He fought the Liberator, but was killed. The Liberator fled." If they had been in the forest, the Rangers' domain, his tale would have a different ending. There, only the most skillful of woodsmen would be able to hide their tracks enough to throw off the green-clad hunters.

Halt cursed. "Why didn't you pursue him?"

A muscle jumped in Will's jaw, and he had to force himself to remain calm. His face was still red when he looked at him. "I was stunned and blinded by the smoke. He was gone before I knew it."

"Are you hurt?" asked Alyss, suddenly at his side to look him over. But Will stepped away, not wanting her, not wanting anyone, to see what he'd taken.

"I'm fine. I don't think the Assassin was worried about me." _Liar. If he was only concerned about the target, he wouldn't have landed on you, fool!_

"Do we have any idea where the Liberator might strike next?" said Gilan.

"He already has," Halt growled, pacing. "He killed a bishop this morning."

"No!" Horace looked astonished. "Why would he...?"

"Obviously he thought him a Templar," said Will sullenly. Halt's pacing was making him anxious. "Just like the other victims."

"And now that he knows we're on his trail, he will vanish from the map completely." Halt glared at the younger Ranger. "This had been our only chance!"

Will returned his gaze to the floor, shame mixing with rage in his gut. "I'm sorry."

"I'll bet you are."

He felt his free hand curl into a fist, but before he could do anything he would regret the rest of his life, he marched from the inn, back into the rain.

"Will!"

The Ranger ignored Alyss' call, dodging into an alley and breaking into a run. He thought he heard Halt calling for him as well, but the rain swallowed the sounds.

Once the inn was left far behind, he stopped and ducked beneath a shop veranda, shaking water from his hair. Looking at the façade, he saw that the shop was unoccupied, the windows and door boarded shut. He pried a few planks off the window and climbed through.

It was musty, damp, and dark, but he went upstairs and managed to knock off a few more boards from windows to let in light. The sounds of the city seemed muffled, the rain as well. Looking around, he saw a bed frame and a wardrobe that had toppled some time ago. He was in the living quarters above the abandoned shop.

Will sat in a square of faded light cast on the floor. He stared at the Assassin vambrace on his lap, then hefted it. It was sturdy but light. On the steel plate that would protect the outer forearm, he traced etched feathers and the triangular insignia of the Brotherhood with a finger. He mused how the insignia looked both like a letter A and the hoods they wore. Coincidence?

He turned his focus to the inside. Careful not to spring the blade again, he tried to figure out how it worked. In the dim light, it was near impossible. He suspected a pressure trigger somewhere within, or perhaps a jarring would engage the blade. But these men scaled walls like monkeys; how could they wear these and climb without slicing their own hands?

Will stared at it a while longer. Then he began to loosen the straps of the leather cuff he wore on the inside of his left forearm, a defence against recoiling bowstrings. He rolled up his sleeve and then, with a hollow feeling of anticipation, slipped the vambrace on.

Nothing happened. He tightened the buckles until it was comfortable and moved his wrist and arm, unaccustomed to the feeling but not repelled by it. It was restricting and yet secure at the same time. Wary, he stood, flexing his hand before flicking his wrist back and giving a slight jerk of his arm. To his surprise, the blade hissed out of its sheath, about six inches long. When he relaxed, it retracted. A snake in the grass.

Excitement mounted. He was cracking a secret of the Assassins!

He practised flicking the blade in and out, noticing a small guard at the wrist stopped it from slicing his palm open if accidentally triggered. He could turn a nut to loosen a cog and remove the blade, perhaps to clean it. It wasn't well concealed beneath his sleeve, but he didn't intend to flaunt it around. At least, not yet.

He hadn't forgotten the sound he'd heard after taking the vambrace. Had he been spotted? Perhaps by another Assassin? What if they thought he'd killed the one in the alley?

Slowly, his discovery lost its lustre, and he began to gaze upon the weapon with dread.

Maybe he should return it. It wasn't meant for Ranger hands, and Halt certainly wouldn't approve.

 _So what?_ a voice demanded. Rangers adopted the Scandinavian sea axe and the small horses bred by the Huns long ago! Perhaps it was time for another evolution of the Ranger inventory.

 _No. No, it is not our way_ , another voice said calmly. Rangers were peace keepers, not killers. Assassins needed the stealth of the hidden blade to eliminate and escape undetected. The White Liberator had nearly managed to do that to Will. A tool such as this suggested Rangers were prepared to murder to solve problems, rather than seek democratic solutions.

Suddenly, the hidden blade was a leech on his arm. He ripped it off so fast he dropped it, and he didn't pick it up. How many people had that weapon slaughtered? No, how many people had the Assassin _wearing_ it slaughtered?

His pity for the young man in the alley withered. Halt was right. Assassins were not on the same side as Rangers. They were disturbers of the peace. They created men like the Liberator and didn't know how to handle them.

The stairs creaked. Will blanched, heart tightening like a fist. Looking around, he realized he had nowhere to hide. But perhaps the shadows would be enough?

Scooping up the hidden blade, he ghosted over to the corner furthest from the window, against the wall with the door. He drew his cloak around himself, hood up, and prayed he looked like furniture.

The footsteps were obvious now, as though the maker figured they'd already been caught and stealth was pointless. They padded to the top of the steps and stopped at the door. Will thought they might hear his heartbeat, or the sweat slithering down his spine. Who was it? The Liberator? An Assassin? The Lyon Guard?

The silence drew on for so long, Will began to wonder if the interloper had already left, or vanished into thin air. But after several minutes, the sound of something small hitting the floor broke the silence. Then the footsteps turned and went back down the stairs.

Will had no idea how long he stood there. The rain had stopped and started again before he took a deep breath. Standing straighter, the cloak fell back into position as he released it and he stepped out of the shadows. He was still cautious as he approached the door and looked down the stairs.

The dust had been disturbed by two sets of boots. One was Will's. The stalker had not entered the room, but he had left something on the threshold. Will crouched to pick it up.

It was a pendant, hanging from a silver chain. He brought it over to the window and held it to the grey light. A cross. A Templar cross.

He nearly dropped it. A _Templar_ had followed him? Will knew as much about the Order as he did the Brotherhood. Which was to say, next to nothing. They were each others' worst enemies, that much was clear. Then what did this mean? If a Templar had seen him flee from the Assassin's corpse, perhaps this pendant was a peace token.

Tucking it into a deep pocket, Will pulled his leather cuff back on and left the building, extra careful he wasn't being followed to the inn. The hidden blade was concealed once more. He knew trying to return it to the owner would be a risk and waste of time – he had no idea where the body was anymore and wandering around in the open might draw attention.

One thing was for certain. He had to convince his company to leave the city at once. The White Liberator would have left anyway, for now he knew he was being pursued, by the king's Rangers, no less. Will had made sure of that.

~ Ʌ ~

"We're leaving."

Will hadn't even opened his mouth before Halt gave the order. But it must have been an impulsive one, because none of them had so much as packed yesterday's socks yet.

Halt turned away from his former apprentice, who merely muttered in obedience before heading up to the room. Once there, Will was met with a new, and unsettling, surprise.

Pinned by a knife to the wall over his bed was a piece of folded parchment. Will stared at it, then glanced up and down the hall before closing the door and striding across the room. Yanking the knife out, he unfolded the paper to reveal two words.

 _We know_.

A void devoured his insides. He'd received many threats in his time as a Ranger, but none had held such potency as this.

He was conscious of the hidden blade in his hand and the cross pendant in his pocket. Both suddenly felt twice as laborious, and it wouldn't surprise him the slightest if either an Assassin or Templar was hiding under the bed right now, waiting to strike.

He didn't look under the bed. He did leave the room, however, knowing that he had to bring this up with Halt. Now.

Will burst into the older Ranger's room without knocking, and that was how he managed to see Halt stuff a silver cube into his bag.

"Will!" he snapped. "Forgotten how to knock?"

"What was that?" Will stared at where the cube had disappeared, frowning slightly.

"Nothing."

"Looked a lot like something."

"Nothing you need concern yourself with." Halt turned away and began shoving other things into the bag. "What do you want?"

Will said nothing, anger sparked again. So Halt was keeping secrets now? "Where are we going?" he asked, voice tight.

"Since the war began, Lyon has kept a close eye on those travelling in and out of her walls, as you know. And word of the _Lib_ _é_ _rateur Blanc_ would have tightened the noose. Alyss should be able to get us the lists of whoever makes it out of Lyon, and we'll see which direction he went. We'll run him down before he reaches the next city."

"The Liberator scales walls like an Assassin. He could easily escape that way."

Halt sighed through his nose. "Don't think I haven't considered that. But what else can we do?"

"...He may not know we're onto him. Just because we caught him at the crime scene—"

"Would you stay if there was the slightest chance you might be caught?"

The words ' _we know_ ' floated before his mind's eye. Will cleared his throat. "If I had important work to be done, yes. I would stay."

"This man killed a bishop. I don't believe he thinks the same way as you do, Will." Halt finished packing the bag and slung it over his shoulder. "But if he managed to evade you, he might have followed you back here."

Will opened his mouth angrily, but Halt cut him off. "I am not belittling your skills, lad. We have to treat this situation as the worst case, until we regain the element of surprise once more...What are you hiding?"

"Nothing," Will replied too quickly, wishing he hadn't brought the hidden blade with him. Halt's eyebrows came together in a dangerous V.

"You didn't come here to ask me where we're going."

He'd known Halt for ten years. The man would know if he lied now. But fortunately they were interrupted before he could try.

Warning bells began to clang throughout the whole city. Both men looked out the window, and then Will strode from the room after Halt. They met Gilan in the hall.

"We're not going anywhere now," said the tall Ranger. "They'll close all the gates."

"Which means the Liberator won't get out either," said Halt. "At least, not that way."

"What are they for?" asked Will. Gilan shrugged.

"Could be anything from a siege to a prison break. Perhaps the Liberator's kill was recognized by someone, and they raised the alarm."

"Halt, Halt!"

All three Rangers turned to face the newcomer storming down the hall.

"Halt, they're coming for you." Horace panted, jabbing a thumb back the way he'd come. "I just got back from the barracks. I went there just to listen, you know, because guards talk and—"

"Yes, Horace, get on with it!"

"They've a warrant for your arrest! Or rather, for the two green-cloaked archers spotted fleeing a murder scene."

"What?" Halt frowned. "They thought it was—?"

"You, yes. Somebody tipped them off. I don't think they know you're Rangers, but it's only a matter of time before someone could tell them where we are."

Halt cursed. "Today is just not working out."

"We need to move." Will tried to go into his room, but Halt grabbed his arm.

"You ready the horses."

"But—"

" _Now_."

Will considered ignoring him, but thought better of it and hastened out to the stables.

* * *

Will began to saddle all of the horses, tightening girths so they were ready to move as soon as their riders joined them in the stables. The beasts were taut, ears erect and eyes wide, unnerved by the clanging bells from the watchtowers. He did his best to calm them.

He was stroking Tug's long face, cooing soft words, when he heard it.

" _Psst_."

He stiffened. He managed not to whip his head around, and instead turned calmly, spotting a figure near a back door. They beckoned him urgently. Curiosity aroused but caution heeded, Will approached, one hand on his saxe knife. The man he saw, however, was unarmed. His sandy hair was trimmed and tidy, and not a speck of dirt soiled his garb. If he lived in Lyon, it wasn't in this district.

"They'll be here soon," he hissed, French accent thick. "You'll never escape."

"Who are you?" Will demanded, voice low.

" _Un ami._ A friend." The man raised his hand, revealing a silver ring with a red cross. "They will arrest you, and you will never see sunlight again. Even if you aren't convicted of killing the bishop, you're English. But I can help you."

Will's hand never left the saxe hilt. "How do I know you're not just here to stall me?"

"Because I'm going to show you a way out." The Templar pulled a map from an inside pocket of his weskit. He opened it to reveal the Roman theatre of Fourvière, and what lay beneath it. "This tunnel will take you beyond the walls of the city. Few know of it. You can even bring your horses down there."

Will took the map, looking at it closely. "How do we get in?"

The man pointed. "Through that second archway, there's a small alcove on your immediate left. Set in the stone there is the Assassin insignia—"

Will jerked. "They know of the tunnel?"

"Yes, but their attention will be diverted, as well as that of the guards. We will see to that."

"Have you made sure the tunnel is clear? No cave-ins?"

The Templar shook his head. "Only an Assassin can get inside."

"...I don't follow."

"You have one of their hidden blades. Use it."

Will grasped his left arm, the sleeve bulging slightly over the vambrace. Before he could inquire further, someone entered the stables behind him. He looked back to see Horace with much of their gear.

"Give us a hand, would you, Will?"

When he faced forward again, the Templar had vanished.

He helped Horace pile the belongings onto the horses, mind reeling with the turn of events. But by the time Halt had marched into the stables, Will had made up his mind.

"Halt." He tugged the older man aside, unfolding the Templar's map. "I think I know a way out."

He frowned, looking at the rumpled parchment. "Where did you get this?"

"...I found it on the dead Assassin. I was going to show you earlier—"

"That would have been nice."

"I'd gone to see if the tunnel existed," Will continued, trying not to sound clipped. "That's where I'd been the past couple hours."

"Did you find anything?"

Swallowing, Will nodded. He prayed the Templar hadn't lied.

"Can the horses get through?"

"Yes. It might be tight for Kicker..." He glanced over at Horace's warhorse. "But he should just fit."

"...Then we will take a chance." Halt moved to inform the others while Will checked for the Lyon guard. As of yet, there was none marching down the way towards the inn, but the warning bells continued to clang. The people had all taken shelter in their homes and businesses. There would be no cover on the way to the theatre.

Halt reached into the saddle bags and pulled out pouches of linen. He slipped them over Abelard's hooves like socks, tying them in place. The others quickly followed suit with their own horses.

"If we're going to move, we have to move now."

The party left in pairs, guiding their horses to the Saône. The absence of guards made crossing to the other side easy, suspiciously so. Will didn't spot a single blue uniform as he walked alongside Alyss, her horse and Tug following close behind. The Templar from the stables had said his men would distract the Lyon guards, but what kind of distraction could clear an entire district?

The last stretch to the ancient Roman theatre, between the last row of structures and Fourvière Hill, was all woodland, and there they mounted, moving at a trot.

Once regrouped, the party stared out over the open space from the tree line. Over a hundred metres of stone stretched before the first row of seats of the theatre. The Brits would stand out like beacons.

"I see the archway," said Will. He scanned the theatre, expecting the blue uniforms of the Lyon guard or the white robes of Assassins. There was no movement but for pigeons.

"We should go around. Come in from the side," said Alyss. Will shook his head.

"There are levels of retaining walls all the way around. The horses won't make it. We'll just have to chance it."

The party crossed the open ground one by one, guiding their steeds up the middle of the crescent-shaped stands. Their hooves made little sound but the riders felt like targets were painted on their backs, and they watched for anyone unwelcome as they crossed.

Will went first, and so arrived at the tunnel entrance with plenty of time to find the insignia the Templar had described, carved into an alcove close to the ground. It was masked with ivy and moss, but he cleared it away, revealing a hole in the middle of the triangular symbol. Flicking the blade out, Will inserted it into the hole and turned it. As the blade sheathed itself, he heard the sound of shifting stone and gears. A large rectangle became evident in the wall around the alcove, dust shaking free. A door. Will put his shoulder up to the right side and began to push. It moved an inch. Gritting his teeth, he pushed harder, boots digging into the soft earth, and the door yielded, exhaling stale air.

Gilan arrived a minute later, giving a low whistle. "Quite the engineering. Perhaps we do have some luck left."

Will ushered him through, then Alyss. When Horace came, the man paled at the sight of the passage.

"It gets wider further along," Will promised. Taking a deep breath, Horace entered the tunnel, tugging a reluctant Kicker after him. When the warhorse's tail disappeared into darkness, Halt arrived with Abelard, who seemed to regard the tunnel with distaste.

"After you." Will waited for Halt to gently lead his horse into the tunnel before ordering Tug to follow. Then with one last look around, Will stepped inside and started pushing the door closed. He'd only moved it an inch when it began to move on its own. When it shut, all sounds of the city were cut off.

The darkness was absolute. Gilan managed to find a torch in a wall sconce, but had to search every saddlebag to find his tinderbox. Even when he'd gotten the ancient tar lit on the torch, Will could see very little – mostly the silhouetted forms of horses and his friends.

"There are more torches ahead," Gilan called back. Sure enough, one made it all the way back to Halt, already aflame.

Will left Tug to walk behind Abelard, squeezing past everyone to get to the front of the line with the map. The stone felt rough where it grazed his shoulder.

"This way."

The journey was long, dreary and dark. Even with three torches, some chambers were too cavernous to illuminate. Black archways suggested more passages, but the map told Will they led nowhere. He wondered why they were there at all, but focused mainly on getting his companions out of danger. This was, after all, Assassin territory. Nothing on the map suggested booby traps or other entrances to the tunnel, but every scurrying rat was a triggered pressure plate. Every drip from the ceiling was one of the notorious killers, coming to take revenge.

 _I need to tell Halt about the note_ , Will thought ruefully. _And the Templar pendant. I need to tell him the truth._

"Is it much further?"

Will jumped, Horace's voice echoing up the passage. "Less...less than a mile, I think," he called back. He took a right turn at a fork, and was encouraged as the tunnel began to climb.

He wasn't the only one. Upon reaching what was clearly a stone door, there was a collective sigh of relief, including, it seemed, from the horses.

"How do we open it?" Horace demanded, searching for a door handle. Even in the torchlight he looked pallid. For a man who could face whole armies without showing a flicker of fear, he was brought very low when stuffed in a rat hole.

Will saw right away how to open it. It was the same as the entrance. He still wore the Assassin vambrace, clumsily hidden inside his sleeve, and he would have to be discreet in order to use it without them noticing.

He strode to the door, patting Horace sympathetically on the back en route. He blocked his actions as much as he could with his body as he drew his throwing knife and pretended to slide it into the hole, but inserted the hidden blade instead. He turned it to the left, and the door begrudgingly unlocked itself. Will half turned and sheathed the knife, as though to prove he'd used it, and the pressed his shoulder against the door, pushing with all his might.

Horace stepped forward to help, and the effort required decreased substantially. Fresh air breathed into the tunnel and the companions closed their eyes in bliss.

The door was set in a deep hollow of stone, the entrance veiled with greenery. Once everyone was out, Will gave the door a slight push and it shut on its own, locking itself. Then he followed his companions out of the hollow, to find himself surrounded by trees. Lyon's tallest spires were nowhere to be seen.

The Templar hadn't lied. Not a word. Strange how Will had put so much more faith in the Assassins, when in his first encounters with both, the Templars had proved to be more appealing.

"Now what?" wondered Horace, digging himself a few apples out of the saddlebags for lunch. He ignored the horses that turned to gaze at the fruit hopefully.

Halt looked up, trying to find the sun. It was not yet noon, yet the day had felt so long already. "We're just going to have to keep moving until we catch word of the Liberator's next kill."

"He could have gone to any of the four winds," said Alyss, sounding daunted at the prospect of gambling the mission against chance.

"If he got out at all," added Gilan.

Will felt the burden of failure strike again. Usually he was able to dismiss such feelings and simply learn from his mistakes. But this had been a devastating mistake. One that couldn't be corrected easily. He was determined to put things right.

"If he got out, he would continue his endeavours. Clearly, when his kills are discovered, it makes a lot of noise if the right people hear of it." Will went over to Tug and rummaged through a satchel, pulling out his journal. He undid the buckle and flipped through the pages. "If I were him, I wouldn't strike in the same place twice."

"As far as we know, he started in Italy somewhere," said Alyss, coming to look over his shoulder.

"Yes. He moved north from there, striking..." His finger traced along the notes he'd made during their weeks of travel. "Avignon, Rodez, Orléans, Caen – and those are the only places we know of. Then he paid a few English cities a visit."

"Killed a duke and two civilians," Halt grunted. "We know."

"But now he's going back," continued Will. "On a different trail, but definitely back towards Italy." He closed his journal, making a mental note to add the bishop to the list of names. The list of victims.

"So you're saying...that's where we should look?" said Horace, looking doubtful. "A bit risky, with the war going on."

"That may be exactly why he's going back," said Gilan. "He'd vanish in the chaos. No one would look at his kills twice."

"Following through with this means braving the Alps," said Alyss, a line on her brow.

"He said few words to me," said Will. "But with those words, I gained an idea of his mentality. He's on a mission. He won't alter his course, not for anything. Not even with the knowledge that he's being tracked."

Halt let out a breath, and his former pupil looked to him. He would have the final say, after all. Will had said his part.

"I suppose there's no sense ignoring the pattern of a madman," said Halt softly. "Very well. Italy it is."


	5. Eagle Vision

**Recap: Ezio and his companions had set off from Rome to locate the White Liberator to the north. Ezio brought along what little information he had about the precursor site called the Reliquary, as well as the Apple of Eden.**

 **This chapter is mostly for the benefit of the RA readers who know little to nothing about the AC fandom. Bear with me, AC fans.**

 **AC fans. Greatly appreciated right now. Getting hot up here... ;3**

* * *

~5~ Eagle Vision

 _Not gods... We simply came Before... Your kind struggled to understand... You may not comprehend Us, but you will comprehend Our warning... I do not wish to speak to you, but_ through _you. You are the prophet. You have played your part... Guard against the cross._

The single clang of a church bell jerked Ezio awake, pupils constricted to pinpricks in the pools of green. A desperate gasp filled his lungs and he sat up, face slick with sweat as the bell's call resonated in his ears. The vision of a woman in strange attire, who called herself Minerva, faded from behind his eyelids. Her words still echoed in his mind, long after the bell fell silent.

"Mentor?" Lauro was looking over from his post by a tree, twiddling a few long pieces of grass between his fingers. His robes were dark grey in the forest gloom. "...Are you alright?"

Ezio said nothing, head resting in his hands. He could hear the same deep, monotonous pulse he'd heard every day since the journey from Rome began. But the lure of the Apple was particularly strong this morning. It often baited him, giving him visions of what was and what might be. It wanted him to hold it, to delve into its limitless knowledge. It wanted him to try to unravel its secrets. It wanted his mind.

And so it burrowed itself into his subconsciousness. It lingered even when he was not thinking of it. There, it unearthed strange dreams. The vision of Minerva hadn't been the first of those dreams. In fact, it wasn't a dream at all. It was a memory. A memory he wished to forget and yet couldn't help but ponder, despite being told, in essence, it wasn't his to ponder. Who had told him? The Ones Who Came Before. Superior beings of a civilization of an age long, long past, whose technologies had yet to be surpassed. The Apple of Eden was theirs. And possibly the Reliquary as well. Both had survived even though their creators had not.

Ezio reached over to his belt and touched the pouch the golden ball was hidden in, the leather thick and insulated to muffle its unearthly pulse and light.

"Are you...hungry?" asked Lauro, wary.

Ezio shook himself free of its temptation completely with the Assassin's words. "No...no. Where's Pedro?"

Lauro stifled a yawn. "He went back to that farm to see if he could get some eggs or bacon. Um, I hope that is alright. We're running low on food, and—"

"Yes, it's fine." Ezio stood and stretched, groaning with relief. There was nothing like a good morning stretch. He yawned and rubbed his face, feeling the length of his beard. He deemed it could take another day. His shirt, however, could not.

Leaving behind his sword, belt, and boots, Ezio grabbed a fresh set of clothes from his saddlebags and made his way to the stream. He stripped, washed, and pulled on the fresh underclothes before pulling on the outer layers of robes. When he reemerged from the woods, a pair of large brown eyes were watching him expectantly.

"You know there aren't anymore apples," he told his horse. The dark bay's ears swivelled to the sides and it shook its mane, rumbling.

"Don't give me that tone."

It snorted.

Lauro was seeing to his own horse, checking for rocks in its hooves before brushing its already glossy coat. Savvy to the buckskin's habit of nipping the hair of the unwary, Ezio gave it a wide berth and stuffed his sweaty clothes into the saddlebags. The fire had been stoked and there was a frying pan ready to take whatever Pedro brought back from the farm. The smell of fresh coffee wafted from a kettle hanging from the makeshift spit. Ezio shook his head. More often than not he crossed country by himself. When he didn't, he was always pleasantly reminded how nice it was to have help with the chores.

"When did Pedro leave?"

Lauro was tying a nosebag to his horse's muzzle. "He should be back soon. He left less than—" His jaw clicked shut as Ezio raised a hand, his confusion clearing at the sound of hoof beats.

Ezio frowned, looking at the road from between the trees. Unless Pedro was really craving bacon, there was no rush to return to camp.

Soon the disciple's blue roan charged around the bend, coming at a full gallop. Scowling, Ezio left the camp, onto the road. His white robes would make him quite visible in the gloom.

"What is this?" he barked as Pedro slowed his horse to a canter, then a complete stop in a span of a few metres. "Of all the reckless, stupid—!"

"Mentor, something happened." The disciple was breathing heavily, the whites of his eyes glinting in the dark. "In the farm. They're all dead. Murdered."

All thoughts of reprimanding were dashed from his mind. "What?"

"I went there. Knocked. Nobody answered, so. I let myself in." Pedro shook his head, taking two more deep breaths. "Two in the house. A girl in the barn."

Ezio turned away, hastening back to camp and nearly striding headlong into Lauro. Without a word he armed himself and saddled his horse.

"Break camp," he ordered the youngest Assassin, who nodded as Ezio led his horse back to the road, beside Pedro.

"Show me."

* * *

"We're almost there." Pedro trotted his horse up to the peak of a hill, Ezio following suit, and there the land opened up below them. For miles stretched the plains several farming families called home. The nearest one, a good Roman mile away, had a modest barn, probably holding sheep or pigs, perhaps a horse or two. A chicken coop was around back. The house was small, single story and made of stones with a thatch roof. No smoke plumed from the chimney, but there was a faint glow in the window, the only light in the valley.

Pedro led the way down, letting his horse choose its own footing. The earth was well packed down and lacked rolling stones, but the Assassins still took care, leaning back in the saddles.

"Strange," said Pedro. "The dogs went mad when I came by the first time. I can't even see them now..."

The ground levelled out, and it was only another fifty paces to the property line. They stayed on the horses, scanning the surrounding land carefully. There were pastures on either side of the path, and croplands beyond those.

Another fifty paces along the path, half way between the house and the gate, there were still no dogs. The air was thick with the stench of pig mud and chicken droppings. A rooster threatened to caw. The Assassins kept riding.

"Did you see anyone alive when you first arrived?"

Pedro shook his head. "Not a soul. I searched everywhere."

"What did you discover?"

"There's a plough in the barn, but no horse. The young woman is in there. Looks like she was strangled to death. The dogs were tied up there." He pointed. "They must have broken loose."

"Hmm." Ezio stopped his horse in front of the house and dismounted. "Still." The bay bobbed its head a little in acknowledgement to the command as Pedro climbed down from his own steed, giving it the same order. Then the disciple waited on his mentor's lead.

As Ezio stepped onto the veranda of the house, it creaked loud enough to annoy the dead. The chickens in the back coop clucked and cooed, expecting breakfast to arrive any second. The chickens woke the pigs, which blundered around inside the barn. But still, no low growls, no warning barks of man's best friend.

Ezio paused, senses on fire. It was the same feeling that helped keep him alive all these years. So, rather than storming the house like cavalry, he stilled, instinctively summoning the one skill he could truly call unique. He focused beyond what he could see before him. Looked past colour and light, brushed darkness aside like a mourning veil. He saw with all of his senses, not only his eyes, and everything insignificant faded into the background. And then he saw what he needed to see.

Blood. Like silvery paint on black canvas. A smear here, a dribble there, between the barn and the house. He could smell it, as though it were right under his nose, sharp and metallic. And it didn't belong to a farm animal.

He gazed up at the house, seeing through walls like glass. But there was no sign of a living human being.

Ezio closed his eyes and exhaled, releasing the Vision. His head stopped spinning as he breathed deeply, and when he opened his throbbing eyes, all had returned to normal.

Like the Apple of Eden and message ferried through him by the Ones Who Came Before, this skill was a mystery for him to bear, and bear alone. No, he couldn't explain how he had the ability spot a target in a crowd of people within moments. He couldn't tell people he could "smell" traces of his quarry long after they'd gone, or hear their conversations clearly from across the room. Because no one else could do it, and to claim it to be truth would cast him in disgrace. His father had known he had this uncanny ability, and it wouldn't surprise Ezio if he'd had the Vision himself. Not for the first time, he wished Giovanni Auditore could have explained it to him before...

"Mentor?"

Ezio was jostled from his reverie, and he looked back at Pedro.

"What are you doing?"

"...Listening." He turned away and pushed the door open, stepping into the kitchen.

It was dark and cold, a single candle on the table the only illumination. But Ezio could still see the corpse of a man lying in the middle of the floor. An older fellow, browned and lined by the Italian sun, wearing his bed clothes. Dark stains on his front drew the Assassin's eyes to his slashed throat.

Pedro followed Ezio inside, looking much more cautious. He, of course, couldn't tell that there were no other living people nearby, and for all he knew the murderer was waiting in the shadows, ready to pounce.

"The woman's in the bedroom," he said softly. "His wife, I'm guessing."

Ezio moved to the adjoining room, where there were three beds – two single and one double – as well as a wardrobe and a footlocker. Sure enough, an aged lady was slumped against the double bed, throat also slashed. Crusty tracks from dried tears were caked to her face. Ezio knelt beside her and closed her eyes.

" _Requiescat in pace_." He turned his focus to a bloodied sickle a few feet away, cast aside when its usefulness had run its course. Taking a deep breath, Ezio used his special sense again. From the smell of the blood alone, he could tell it was less than an hour old, and it had belonged to both the farmer and his wife.

"It's fresh."

Pedro tensed. "How fresh?"

Ezio turned his head. There was another smell. Still blood, but belonging to someone else. The young woman in the barn? Unlikely, if she had been strangled to death. Then perhaps the killer had been wounded?

At the entrance to the bedroom, Pedro watched him anxiously. He stood aside to allow Ezio to reenter the kitchen, and the grand master heard him mutter his own parting words before following him out of the house.

Here, the smell of the killer's blood intensified, and mingled with that of the farmer's. Ezio swayed and caught himself against the banister, releasing the Vision with a gasp.

"Mentor!" Pedro was at his side in a heartbeat, but Ezio shrugged off his support.

"I'm fine! I just stumbled." He cursed himself for his carelessness and forced down the dizziness. He had to remember to breathe when using his extra sense, and to trust the regular senses every human being had. As much as the Vision broadened his awareness of his surroundings, it potentially hid the dangers right under his nose.

Pedro still looked concerned, but Ezio straightened his shoulders and marched on as though nothing was wrong. Which there wasn't.

Hauling the barn doors open further, Ezio let the pre-dawn light enter over his shoulders. There was a clear space down the middle of the building, littered with straw. Against either wall were the pens holding the pigs, which huffed and snorted, banging against the gates. A plough was on the left, near a stall that should be holding a horse but wasn't. Near the far wall were bales of hay, and at the foot, there was the third victim, barely into womanhood and now only food for worms. She was sprawled on a heap of loose hay, neck purple with bruises.

Ezio scanned the rest of the barn for life, but only saw rats, pigeons and the pigs in their pens. Above was a loft, but no one was hiding there either.

"Bastard used his bare hands," Pedro growled, glaring at the corpse. "I figured he killed her parents, then had his way with her in here."

"Perhaps." Ezio scanned the floor. There was blood here too, difficult to make out in the dark and easily mistaken for mud or manure. But his extra sense once more cast the blood in silver, allowing him to visualize what happened.

"Look. Localized spatter. Someone was shot, right here." Ezio stood, back to the barn doors, the hay to his left, passing his hand over the blood on a nearby pillar. Pedro squinted, stepping within a foot of the pillar to try and see the blood. But Ezio was already moving closer to the barn doors. "And here, a long, concentrated spray. I believe this is where the farmer met his end." He didn't believe. He knew. Even if he hadn't seen the farmer's wound he would have been able to tell the difference between the two bloods.

"I think the farmer walked in on the killer and the girl. He didn't like what he saw so he fired his gun, only wounding the killer." Ezio began to act out the scene, stepping in from the door and holding a pretend gun. He moved to be in the killer's position. "He gets up, here, turns..." Ezio turned, spotting a row of farming tools. He picked up an invisible handle. "Grabs the sickle, charges the farmer." He acted his own narration, slashing at the air. "Kills him. The girl screams. The killer is bleeding." Ezio followed a blood trail over to the hay. "He tries to silence her, but her father was just murdered. So he murders her too." He followed the blood trail out the front doors of the barn. "The killer goes after the farmer's wife. No witnesses. No one to raise the alarm, perhaps for days. He takes the horse and disappears into the night."

Pedro had watched in silence the whole time, his admiration evident even with his hood up. But, as Ezio had hoped, he pointed out a flaw in the older man's assessment.

"But the farmer was in the house. Why would the killer drag him there and then leave?"

"Why indeed." Ezio gazed out over the pastures. Strange. Pigs had little use for pastures. "How many beds did you see?"

"In the house?"

Ezio gave him a withering look. Pedro shuffled.

"Three, mentor."

"Good. So did I. Go up in the loft for me."

Pedro hastened to obey, flying up the ladder to the second floor.

"There's no one here."

"Of course not. What _is_ there?"

"...It looks like someone had slept up here. There's a lantern, some clothes, and that definitely looks like a bed. I'll bet it belonged to a farmhand."

"And if the farmhand stayed in the barn..."

"Then someone else occupied the third bed in the house."

"My thoughts exactly." Ezio waited for Pedro to climb back down.

"Do you believe he's the killer? The farmhand, I mean?"

Again Ezio didn't believe; he knew. Sweat wasn't as strong as blood but it worked in a pinch, and the scent from the loft matched that of the killer's blood.

He nodded. "I do."

Pedro shook his head, looking at the poor girl. "What a waste."

"There's nothing to be done for her. But there is a chance this entire family wasn't destroyed."

Pedro turned to him, the dark look melting away. "She must have a brother or sister who got away."

"Or was at least spared. The farmhand took off on the horse, which, judging by the size of the plough, would have been big enough to carry two. Why he would kidnap someone isn't important. What's important is bringing them to safety."

"You said the farmhand was shot, mentor. But I see no gun. I'll bet he took that, too."

"Good. You were paying attention." Ezio stepped from the barn. Dawn was a pink haze on the horizon, and birds had already begun to sing. He looked to the road. "Lauro is on his way."

When the third member of their party had joined them, they gave him a rundown of what had happened.

"If there's a chance someone survived, we have to help them," Pedro finished.

"Do you think you could track him?" asked Ezio.

Lauro looked angry but focused. He was one of the best trackers in the brotherhood, better than even his mentor when it came to reading what was on the ground. Ezio, of course, could follow his special senses, but eventually it would make his companions suspicious.

"Track him? Of course I can track him." Lauro strode towards the barn, forgetting to tell his horse to stay. So it followed him.

"Wh—? Dammit, no! You'll ruin the trail!" Lauro grabbed the buckskin's reins, and it bumped him with its nose. "Stop that. Come on." He tried to steer the animal around, but had to duck as the horse bit the back of his hood, pulling it off his head. The friction made some of his hair stand on end. "Hey!"

Ezio's eyes rolled to the sky and Pedro snickered.

"Assist the poor horse master, if you would," said Ezio blandly.

The buckskin whinnied, high and soft, amused by its own antics. Pedro took its reins and Lauro stomped off towards the barn again, yanking his hood up and muttering about how tasty horseflesh might be.

"Work horse. Sixteen or seventeen hands. All four hooves shod," said Lauro, kneeling in the dirt.

"What colour is it?" called Pedro, smirk audible.

"Shut up." Lauro got up, making a frustrated noise. "It's too dark and it hasn't rained for days. But..." He stared off towards the croplands. "I believe he's avoiding the road. He went that way."

"Then so will we." Ezio went back and mounted his horse. Pedro followed suit, letting the reins of Lauro's buckskin fall to the dirt. When the smaller Assassin tried to grab them, the horse turned its head, then its whole body, keeping them out of reach.

"You son of a—" Lauro grabbed a stirrup to try and stop the horse's turning, but the playful stallion was having too much fun. Only when Pedro took mercy on his fellow Assassin and stepped in to help again was Lauro able to take the reins.

"I _told_ you to pick a gelding," said Pedro.

"You hear that?" Lauro hissed to his horse. "When we get to the city, we're going to chop your _balls_ off."

* * *

By the time the sun had burned away the morning dew, the trio was back in the forest. Their bloodhound who was Lauro had dismounted, seeking the inexpertly hidden tracks left by the farmhouse murderer.

"He would have been better off not making the effort at all," Lauro murmured, brushing aside fern leaves that had been picked and dropped across the hoof prints.

Ezio and Pedro kept sharp lookouts, leaving no quarter blind for more than a few seconds. Ezio used the Vision as much as he dared, to the point of a throbbing ache behind his eyes and an unpleasant tingle in his ears and nose. But he had to ensure they were not being sneaked up on; that blood had been fresh, the bodies barely cold. He was toying with an idea of why the killer moved the farmer's corpse into the house—

"Mentor, I've been thinking."

Ezio glanced at Pedro. "A dangerous pastime."

He didn't even crack a smile. "Those people weren't killed very long ago, and... the dogs. What are the chances of them breaking free in the thirty minutes it took me to fetch you?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Mentor...is it possible that he, the killer, was there when I... And I didn't even see him?"

Ezio had come to the same conclusion. He kept his tone level, not accusing, not arguing. "But you said the horse was gone when you got there."

"It was. I believe the farmhand panicked after killing the family and rode off, but not far. He came back on foot – for stealth – to hide the evidence. Perhaps put the bodies in the house and burn it to the ground."

"But you interrupted his plans and he panicked again," said Ezio, "taking the dogs with him after you left."

Pedro nodded, not meeting his mentor's eye. "I should have stayed. I should have looked harder—"

"Don't start that. The day's too young." Ezio meant it lightly, but Pedro's head dipped and turned away.

"Pedro got in trouuuble," Lauro sang, crouched a short distance ahead. Pedro glared fire, then raised his left hand, which held the reins of Lauro's playful stallion. The smaller man's eyes widened. "Don't you—!"

Pedro opened his hand. As soon as it felt its restraint slacken, the buckskin nickered like a colt and trotted off ahead. Lauro made a lunge for its reins, missing but just barely catching a stirrup, getting dragged in the dirt a few metres for his troubles.

Ezio grumbled under his breath, and Pedro tried to hide his amusement.

"I hope you two understand how imperative it is that we keep a low profile," Ezio growled.

Pedro nodded. Lauro, flushed, nodded as well, before glaring at his fellow disciple. Pedro made kissy noises at him.

"One more peep – from either of you – and I'll tie you to the underside of your horses. Understand?"

The young ones had no doubt he would do just that.

It was early afternoon when Lauro finally stopped. "We're right on top of him," he whispered, pointing towards a thicket.

Ezio signalled a dismount, and Pedro obeyed, his feet making minimal noise in the undergrowth. So it was easy to hear the low growl emerging from the thicket.

Ezio cursed. So much for a stealthy approach and quick apprehension.

"Where is it?" Pedro hissed.

Using his special senses, Ezio spotted one farm dog just beyond the first layer of ferns. The second...the second...

He screwed his eyes shut, a searing pain ripping through his head like a spear. He only just managed to withhold a groan. He had used the Vision too much. But not before he caught a glimpse of the life force of the second dog, trotting towards its companion's warning growl.

"Straight ahead," said Ezio, as softly and calmly as he could. The pain faded with a few vengeful throbs.

The dog emerged from the bushes, followed closely by its kin. Reassured by each others' presences, they began to bark.

"Stay away!" came a voice from the thicket. "I'm warning you! They will attack on my command."

Ezio thought quickly. If they charged, the farmhand might kill his hostage. But there was no bluffing their way closer, as there was no doubt he would recognize Pedro, by his size and horse.

Making a hissing sound through his teeth, he called his companions' attention. He hand signalled to Lauro, bidding him to blend into the woods and approach the camp from behind. Lauro nodded and obeyed, retreating a ways to break the dogs' line of sight before making the curve.

"Follow my lead," Ezio muttered to Pedro, who nodded stiffly. Ordering their horses to stay, they approached the thicket. The dogs' barks became louder, more aggressive.

"They'll rip you to pieces!" the voice yelled, quavering.

"Be _still!_ " Ezio snapped. The two canines froze, lips caught on their bottom teeth. Their tails wagged slowly, nervously, then tucked between their legs as the large man took a firm step towards them. Figures. They were trained to run off wolves, and only scare humans.

"We simply wish to talk, friend," Ezio called. He walked around the dogs, which sniffed at his robes submissively, giving the occasional grumble. Pedro stayed but a few paces behind.

"I have a gun!"

"We come in peace." Just a little further. "We saw you riding by. We thought you might be in trouble." The camp was now visible through the bushes.

The second of too quiet was warning enough. Ezio summoned the Vision, only to cry out, knees buckling and hands at his temples as a fiery pain ripped through his skull. But not before he spotted the red, hostile aura of the killer above.

"The trees!" Ezio cried, eyes screwed shut in agony. "He's in the trees!"

Then a shot rang out, a small explosion of splinters shattering the side of a tree behind Ezio. Pedro yelped and tackled his master flat to the ground. A horse was screaming and a child was crying. Another wild shot missed the pair on the ground, but they did not move, not to be flushed out of the bushes like pheasants.

"I have enough to take down a whole army. Leave before I am forced to end your lives!"

Whether or not the farmhand indeed had enough ammunition to level an army was immaterial, for a second later, the twang of a crossbow and the surety of a quarrel heralded his doom. He screamed once, but was dead before he hit the forest floor.

"Mentor, mentor! Are you hurt? What's wrong with you?"

Ezio had to push Pedro off. He sat up too quickly and was punished with nausea. "Get away. I'm fine." He swallowed, closing his eyes and bidding the dizziness to fade. It took longer than before, but fade it did.

"You must be hungry. Let me get you some food."

"No. Check the child." Ezio pointed, and he hesitantly moved to obey. The grand master followed a short while later, discretely wiping blood from under his nose.

Pedro was holding a boy by the time Ezio entered the camp. He was young, no more than six, puffy from crying but currently dry-eyed. He said nothing as Ezio approached and Lauro appeared from the other side of the thicket, miniature crossbow still in hand. He approached the body of the nameless murderer cautiously, then knelt, closing the man's eyes.

" _Requiescat in pace._ "

Ezio turned to Pedro. "Has he said anything?"

Pedro shook his head.

"He must. We need to find out if he has any family left, and where they would be." Ezio scanned the camp. The work horse was tied to a tree, eyes still wild from the confrontation. There was a single knapsack with provisions, but no sleeping rolls. It was unlikely there were any at the farm.

Pedro was whispering to the child as Ezio put a hand towards Lauro, gently brushing his shoulder with his fingertips, and they walked a short distance away.

"Are you alright?"

Lauro nodded, looking down. "That was not my first kill, mentor."

"What's your point?"

He flushed. "I mean, I'm not going to throw up, if that's what you're worried about."

"Mmph."

"Mentor, why do you think he did this?"

Ezio raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps because he thought he could get away with it."

"But he would have, had we not been here. If we were closer to another farm, or had pressed on to the next city, or—"

"What are you getting at?"

Lauro picked at a splinter on the handle of his miniature crossbow. "He made a choice. Now a family is dead. And so is he. It all seems so...pointless."

"What's pointless? Life? Or choice?"

The smaller man looked up. Sweat had plastered dark strands of hair to his brow and cheeks.

"The farmhand made a choice, yes," said Ezio, "and we were the consequence. Let man choose, and bear the burden of his decision."

Before Lauro could say more, Pedro's voice drifted over. "He has an uncle at the farm next to his. We can take him there."

* * *

 **Disclaimer: The first paragraph is a paraphrased version of Minerva's dialogue with Ezio at the end of AC II and belongs to Ubisoft.**


	6. In the Alps

**Yep, updating again. Because I'm thick as a brick.**

 **Recap: Halt and co. had to flee Lyon after being accused of killing a victim of the White Liberator, whom they believe is making for Italy. Unbeknownst to his companions, Will had been caught with a dead Assassin, but he doesn't know who by. A Templar gave him the map that guided them out of Lyon unnoticed and he has yet to show himself again.**

* * *

~6~ In the Alps

 _June 18th, 1504. Chambéry is a prosperous metropolis between France, Italy and Switzerland. It may be a French city but they have been the friendliest, most diverse people we've met on our mission thus far, even to us. We yet keep a low profile, however, not knowing of the relationship between England and the House of Savoy. And, as Halt was elated to find, evidence of the White Liberator's passing through here is promising, although not even Alyss can get into the morgue to substantiate the rumours we have heard._

 _We had pushed for Chambéry from Lyon and are grateful for the opportunity to rest the horses. Kicker had nearly fallen on a mountain road, and Horace demanded that we slow the pace. Better to reach the destination late than not at all._

 _I have yet to speak to Halt about my fears concerning the Assassin vambrace, Templar pendant and anonymous note. Nor have I asked further questions about his silver cube._

 _June 19th. Murders of the White Liberator confirmed. A member of House Savoy was found slain in his bedchambers this morning, along with his manservant, Olivier Dorian. Only the former was mutilated with the cross of the Templar Order. The city is in uproar. We disguise ourselves and speak to no one, else we go through what we did in Lyon._

 _Halt is frustrated. Once more the Liberator danced around us like we were blind, almost as though he'd waited for us to reach the city before making his kill. It's like he knew we were on his tail._

 _We've theorized his actions. He murders multiple times if his targets are commoners, for they tend to have less impact on the populace. When his target is of political or religious importance, he strikes and then flees with all haste. He seemed to have done this in England, when he murdered a duke, and in Lyon, with the bishop. Now he has killed a popular noble, and I grow ever more convinced he will escape through the Alps, into Italy. The Liberator believes he will elude all pursuers there._

 _If we follow, we may be trapped on the peninsula for the winter._

 _June 22nd. The Liberator has abandoned the main road. Thankfully our horses are up for the challenge, but we're running out of food. We will have to hunt and risk a fire soon._

 _June 23rd. I nearly lost Tug today. A rock slide crashed right through the middle of our company, dividing me and Gilan from Horace, Alyss and Halt. A chunk of rock rebounded off a boulder and glanced off Tug's shoulder, and he nearly threw me in pain and terror. I could only think of him, how his leg might be shattered. I managed to calm him quickly, and inspect his leg. Gilan did the same, and we both determined that the leg wasn't even fractured. Still, I will not ride Tug for the next few days._

 _June 28th. We are being followed._

Will slipped his journal back into his satchel, too anxious to write anything more. He was slumped in the saddle, head low, hood up. But his senses were alert, his eyes scanning the road ahead ceaselessly, listening for the sounds beneath the wind. Before him rode Alyss and Halt, Horace behind Will and Gilan as the rearguard. Will knew Gilan was glancing back quickly at irregular intervals, hoping to catch any stalker audacious enough to follow on the winding, perilous path.

It was a sheer rise on their right and dizzying drop on their left, which overlooked a deep valley cupping a lake. It made him nervous not only because there was no chance of surviving a fall, but also because there was nowhere to run should they be ambushed. Needless to say, all three Rangers' longbows were strung and Horace kept a hand on his sword pommel.

Will leaned to look ahead of Halt. To his relief he could see the path merged with the floor of a mountain pass a few hundred metres ahead, green with trees and vegetation. Vegetation meant food, fresh food. Water was in great abundance here, so they didn't have to drink what had been sitting in leather water skins for days, but now they would be able to make that water into coffee. Two days on what was little more than a goat trail, and there had been nothing to burn but moss, tough mountain grass and brush. The forest ahead would have more than enough wood to start a fire.

Unfortunately the thought of a little comfort did not settle Will's mind. Tug, Abelard and Blaze had been silent for most of the journey, giving no sign that they detected danger, as Ranger horses were trained to do. But every time Kicker sneezed or Alyss' steed tossed its head, Will would perk, hand tightening on his bow.

They _were_ being followed. He could sense it. And he knew the others did too.

Horace began to hum an old shanty he had learned when they crossed the English Channel. Will gritted his teeth, but curbed his anger, knowing the soldier was only doing it to calm himself. Anticipation was contagious, and Horace had been on enough missions with Rangers to know the mood they were in now, despite outward appearances.

Will glanced back at him. He was gazing out over the valley, occasionally brushing a stray lock of auburn hair from his face. He'd let his beard grow out, adding years to his face. His eyes were still young, though, which many an opponent had noticed and tried to take advantage of. Unfortunately for them, Horace had been born with a sword in his hand and there were few who could best him in hand-to-hand combat. Horace also kept a rifle in his inventory. Will had rarely seen him use it on an enemy, but he knew he could fire accurately, under the right circumstances.

Gilan noticed Will glancing back, and gave him a nod. Several years his senior, Gilan had been Halt's apprentice before Will, and his own skill with a sword – highly unusual but exceptionally useful tool for a Ranger – had gotten them all out of more than one tight spot. Between Horace and Gilan, Will had yet to see who was better with a blade, however the latter's Ranger skills gave him an edge that had Will betting his britches on. Uncanny bow skill, accuracy with the throwing knife and the art of unseen movement were just a few of many.

Will nodded back to Gilan before facing forward again, just in time to see Alyss smiling back at him. Like the gentle touch of sunlight, he felt comfort merely from the sight of her face. Her golden hair was tied back to stop it from blustering in her eyes, and despite nearly two months of travel the royal courier somehow managed to keep as clean and gorgeous as ever.

"It's so beautiful," she said, flicking her gaze over the valley. Despite the chill, wind and fear, Will couldn't agree more. The lake below, hemmed by lush woodland, was as smooth as glass, reflecting every detail of the snowy mountains above. The golden skies were clear and the air was crisp. It was refreshing after the smokey, sweaty streets of cities they'd come across.

"And a perfect defence," called Halt over his shoulder. "Strategically speaking."

Halt. With his grim eyes and grimmer frown, his hair and beard twice as grey as it was black and hacked to a manageable length with his saxe knife. Even though Will had had difficulty meeting him in the eye since their row, his very presence reassured him, made him feel like everything was going to be alright.

"A small party could cross with relative ease," Halt continued, gesturing at his company. "But an army? They would have neither speed nor few casualties."

"Charlemagne did it," Horace called back. "As did Constantine."

"And Hannibal!" Gilan cried.

"I'm not saying it's impregnable!" Halt barked.

"Hannibal did it with elephants," said Gilan, looking smug at getting his old mentor riled.

"A successful endeavour, was it?"

That shut him up.

"Deer!" Horace pointed to a brown, horned animal a hundred metres ahead, where the trail merged with the forested mountain pass. It was grazing before a steep cliff. One wrong step and it would be doomed.

"It's not a deer," said Alyss. "It's a chamois."

"No, it's food," said Horace, grinning. "Take it down, would you, Will?"

Will had no doubt he could shoot it. He'd trained for years to have accuracy as good as his eyesight. That was to say, if he could see it, he could hit it. But that was not what made him pause.

"If I kill it now, it'll roll off the cliff," he said.

"Here," said Gilan. "I'll fire an arrow between it and the cliff and scare it towards the trees. Then you can shoot it."

Will nodded, then scowled as Gilan added cheekily, "Unless you want to wait until we get closer?"

"Why do you need to get closer?" said Horace. Will could hear a bit of teasing in his voice.

"We can't," he said nastily. "It'll hear the great lumbering bear that's travelling with us."

Horace threw his arms in the air. "And the great Will Treaty does it again!"

Halt half turned in the saddle and said, "You know, Horace, sarcasm isn't the lowest form of wit. It isn't wit at all."

Alyss giggled, and Will knew the grizzled old Ranger would be hiding a smirk. Everyone knew he liked making her laugh.

"I could blow my horn," Horace said, "scare the beast away."

"And be content with dried beef and half an apple tonight?" sang Gilan.

Horace mumbled, which was answer enough.

Halt lifted a fist, stopping the company. "Any closer and it'll smell the horses," he said. "Take it out."

As they'd planned, Gilan aimed for a spot between the chamois and the cliff edge. With a deep _thrum_ , the arrow sailed away, and Will readied himself as the projectile thudded into the earth, startling the beast. It jumped away from the cliff, disturbed by the unfamiliar sound, and then turned, trotting towards the trees. The youngest Ranger drew, checked the wind, and fired. The arrow struck exactly where he wanted – into the back of the chamois' skull. The beast collapsed instantly.

Will didn't expect any praise, not from Halt or Gilan. But his betrothed expressed her awe, despite having seen him perform more difficult shots, while Horace groaned with longing.

"Finally. Good eating tonight!"

They reached the pass, leaving the perilous mountain trail behind them. Tug almost broke into a trot getting onto the grass, but his training stopped him from doing so. Will patted his hot neck before dismounting and heading towards the dead chamois.

It was more like a goat than a deer, with horns that stuck straight out of its head before curving back at the tips. It had a pale face with dark stripes over both eyes, a brown body and a tufted tail. It wasn't huge, but there was more than enough to feed them all.

Will extracted his arrow as Horace approached, picking up the chamois with ease. "What are you waiting for? Get a fire going!"

"Here?" said Will.

"Night falls faster in these mountains," said Halt, as though they all didn't already know that. The tall peaks blocked the sun hours before dusk, shortening the time in which it was safe to travel. "This place is as good as any."

Will nearly opened his mouth to argue, but Gilan put a hand on his shoulder, nodding towards the path. "If we're being followed, they'll have to be on that trail. We'll easily keep watch."

The younger Ranger nodded, if begrudgingly. Gilan patted his back and followed the others towards the trees.

* * *

Halt prodded a chunk of wood in the fire. It hissed and spat, tendrils licking the log like the tongues of hell hounds. The Ranger then sat and pulled his cloak tighter about himself, tucking his chin into his shirt. Despite the flames, the cold encroached on his old limbs and seeped into his bones.

Around him were his sleeping companions. Or at least, three of them. The last was several metres away, watching the mountain trail for the anticipated followers as a pink dawn leeched into the sky. Halt released a sigh through his nose, then stood, grabbing a spare blanket and bringing it over to the sentry.

"I can't sleep. Go get warm," he said to Will, sitting beside him. He'd found a clear patch surrounded by foliage, with a good view of the trail.

Will looked at him. "I'm okay."

"Don't mind my company then?"

The young man turned his gaze forward, but not before Halt saw the guilt. "O-of course. Why would I mind?"

Halt frowned. "I may be old and decrepit, but I'm not stupid."

"I don't think... I never said..." He trailed off, sheepish.

"...Will, you're not very good at hiding your thoughts."

"I've got nothing to hide."

"You detest me."

Now Will looked at him in shock. "I don't detest you!"

"You've barely said three words to me in a week," said Halt, voice neutral. "You scowl when I give you an order. You won't look me in the eye. You're angry. And rightfully so."

Will stared, speechless.

"I might be hasty, judging the Assassin Brotherhood when I haven't even so much as seen a member up close. But that lack of knowledge, the fear of the unknown, is the reason why I don't want you chasing after them. I'm trying to protect you, Will."

The young man bowed his head, like he always did when Halt reminded him of something he already knew.

"I was curious. I wanted to see who they are, what they do, and why." Will rubbed at his left arm. The sleeve moved peculiarly, and Halt frowned at it before his attention returned to his former pupil's words, conscious of his use of the past tense. "We've adopted techniques and weapons from successful peoples. I thought we could learn from the Assassins."

Halt shook his head. "If our predecessors had thought the same, they would have tried long ago."

"...Halt, there's something I have to tell y—"

"Shh!"

Both Rangers froze. As per habit, their hoods were already up and their mottled cloaks were tugged around them, softening the hard lines their bodies would cast against the foliage. To anyone who didn't know they were there, they would be invisible.

Halt scanned where he had heard the sound, the click of stone on stone. Will wisely said nothing, likely searching for movement with only his eyes. The wind continued to moan, the trees hissing with the cold. The birth of dawn and sliver of moon cast just enough light to illuminate the snow-capped mountains and the lake below. Despite the calm, the men held their vigilance, never doubting for a moment that something was stirring beyond the edge of the cliff.

Eventually they determined the disturbance wasn't nearby. Together, they lowered themselves onto their bellies and inched their way out of the cover of the trees, snaking through the grass towards the edge. It took several minutes, they were moving so slow, but their patience was rewarded with no alarming call from stalkers. They settled just before the drop off, staring down into the vale below.

"There," said Will, so softly Halt barely heard him. "Right of the tree."

A couple hundred metres down and away was a lone, struggling tree, curling out from the mountainside. It was black in the darkness, the stone and scrub blue around it. Halt's eyes weren't what they used to be, but he saw the two figures slowly climbing up out of the valley just below the tree, at an angle towards the pass the Rangers were hiding in.

"They aren't coming from the trail," said Will redundantly.

Halt tried not to look at them directly, so as to see them better. They were wearing pale clothing, white or grey. The occasional glint of steel in the moonlight spoke of weapons or armour. They wouldn't be Swiss mountaineers, Halt was sure of that.

As they watched, one of the figures nearly lost their footing, the consequential thrashing to regain a hold sending debris clicking and clacking down the mountain. It was the same sound that had alerted Halt in the first place. The two figures stopped, nestled in the rocks. Had the Rangers not known they were there, they wouldn't have seen them at all.

It was several minutes before they started their diagonal ascent once more. At their pace, it would take them an hour to reach the pass. Halt signalled a retreat and crawled back from the edge. Back in the trees, he stood.

"String your bow," he ordered softly, not doing so himself. Had it been daytime, he would have. But in this questionable light, he simply could not trust his eyes like he used to.

Will recoiled. "You want me to kill them?"

"You know as well as I who they are. They must have followed us from Chambéry, or even Lyon."

Will looked doubtful. "Why should they? They have no reason to be hunting us."

Halt stared at him. For weeks he'd known something was off about his former apprentice. And just moments ago, Will was going to tell him why.

"When the White Liberator escaped you in Lyon, did anyone see you with the Assassin he had killed?"

Even in the gloom, Halt could see the whites of Will's eyes beneath the hood. It gave him a fearful look.

"I...I..."

"Tell me the truth, boy."

It had been a long time since he'd called Will boy. The hurt and outrage was apparent in his posture, and he looked at his feet, silent for a few more seconds.

"It is...possible."

"And is it _possible_ someone saw you take something from the corpse? Besides the map showing a way out of the city?" Halt glanced at Will's oddly lumpy sleeve.

The extended silence was more than answer enough. But right now, Halt didn't care what Will had taken. He only cared about keeping his friends safe from those murderers.

"Kill them."

"Halt, I don't think—"

"I'm ordering you to kill them."

"Something tells me that would be a grave mistake!"

"Worse than allowing them to track us down and slice our throats in our sleep?" Halt whispered coarsely, face thunderous.

"We have time. We'll cover our tracks, smother the fire, make it look like we were never here. Even if they know a party passed through here, Assassins are city-dwellers. This is our element, our domain. We hold all the advantages."

Halt's breath was loud through his nose, anger barely contained. Despite himself, he saw Will's logic. This was their territory, and should dead Assassins be found by their brethren, the dangers might pike. But it was Will's last argument that made up his mind.

"They may also be hunting the Liberator. Just as we are. He killed one of their own, remember. Maybe that was what they saw."

"...Fine," said Halt. "Wake the others, smother the fire, and make for the road. I'll cover our trail."

Will looked relieved as he hastened to do as he was told. Halt returned to the path, disguising their tracks except for one set of hoof prints, just in case the Assassins had enough skill to notice. They would assume it was from the Liberator, if it was indeed he who they were tailing.

He joined the others in the trees. Will had banished the evidence that there had been a fire. The remains of the chamois had been buried. The absence of Gilan, Horace and Alyss told Halt they had already taken the horses further into the trees, along the animal trail.

"Halt." Gilan emerged from the foliage like a ghost, making Halt jump. The man was the best in the corps when it came to the art of unseen movement, and had the old Ranger been an enemy, he'd be a dead enemy by now.

"What?"

"There are a few trails southwest of here, but we've found the Liberator's tracks. He's moving further down the mountain, into the valley."

"Then so are we." Halt paused, pondering.

Evidently Will was pondering the same thing, for he said, "We need to keep an eye on the Assassins. If they've followed us this far, they're probably better trackers than what we give them credit for."

"Right," said Gilan. "I'll—"

"I'll hang back." Will pressed on. "If they pick up your trail, I'll follow them. I understand enough French – I'll be able to tell if they're hostile."

He looked between his companions. Gilan was frowning and Halt opened his mouth to argue. Then he clicked it shut. He was the senior Ranger but Will was young, his wits sharp and eyes clear.

 _Clear-er_ , he thought grumpily.

"I suppose there's no sense wasting time arguing."

Will nodded grimly.

"You'd better take the map, then," said Gilan. "We trust the Liberator knows where he's going, and can guide us out of the mountains. But if you're led astray..."

Will nodded again, and was uncomfortably quiet as the three of them returned to the horses. They were standing near the edge of the glade. As Gilan had said, a few paths branched off from theirs, heading into the valley below, one of which the Liberator had taken. A goat trail continued along the side of the mountain, riddled with rocks and debris.

As Will checked his supplies – food, water, tinderbox, an extra quiver – Gilan went about convincing Horace and Alyss this was the best course of action.

"It's outrageous," Alyss hissed. "He can't go alone!"

"No one can go with him," said Halt. "The Assassins might not notice one missing set of tracks. But they'll notice two."

"What if they catch him? What if—?"

"They won't catch me," said Will simply. He was tightening Tug's saddle girth, not looking at her.

Halt approached him, but before he could speak, Alyss grabbed Will's hand and tugged him away. Deciding to give them privacy, Halt checked over Will's supplies and tucked the map into the saddlebags.

"Are you sure this is wise?" asked Gilan.

Halt sighed through his nose. "It is sensible. Without knowing how many Assassins are on our tail, we can't show hostility. They might already blame us for the death of one of their kin."

"You should go now," said Will, approaching. Behind him, Alyss still looked angry, but resigned to the situation. "Cover as much ground as you can before they get here, and hide your tracks."

He clasped forearms with the soldier and two Rangers, gave Alyss one last hug, then took Tug's reins and retreated back into the trees to await the Assassins and their decision.

Halt came close to calling him back. What madness was this? Will could be killed and left to rot in these infernal mountains. Or captured and imprisoned in some hellish Assassin hideout. Or—

"He'll be fine," said Horace. "You trained him, after all."

Halt released another sigh. "You're right. By both counts, I hope."

* * *

Gaël was the first to crest the cliff. So silently he moved, he was sure that their quarry yet remained oblivious. He turned to help his sister the last few feet, her relief evident even with her grey hood concealing her face. She had slipped more than once climbing these bluffs, nearly compromising their position.

"Easy, easy, there," he whispered. Nadia was too young to be clambering around in the Alps.

 _Especially in the dark_ , Gaël thought. But Lucien had been adamant. "Experience is the best teacher," he always told them.

The Assassin siblings remained flat on the grass, watching the grove nestled between two sheer rises of mountains. There was little else to go but straight through.

Gaël sniffed, catching the tang of smoke.

"He said there was a whole party going along this valley," he whispered. "Four or five on horseback." They should be able to find their tracks, easily.

Making a sign with his hand, he motioned the slow advance. They were exposed here. They'd been trained to exist in these mountains like ghosts, unlike their city-dwelling brethren, but they were still young and inexperienced. They had to act like they could be spotted at any moment. Which they could. Their grey robes, again different from Assassins who stuck to the cities, were grey with patches of green to help conceal them in the perilous Alps, but they did not make the pair invisible.

The siblings took no comfort in the trees. If their quarry was anywhere nearby, it could be within metres of them. But their search revealed nothing. Not so much as a fire pit. Their puzzlement was shared with a single look. Where did they go? Had they chanced trekking the mountain paths at night?

Gaël moved back the way they'd come, putting his hands around his mouth and making the low hoot of a male eagle-owl. He did this multiple times, to ensure that any potential listeners wouldn't think it a signal.

A few moments later, the hoot of a female eagle-owl responded, and Gaël repeated his sequence to confirm. Then he lied in wait with Nadia, letting their mentor come to them.

Lucien appeared over the edge of the cliff in twenty minutes, less than half the time it took for the siblings to climb. They remained still as the elder Assassin searched the area as they did, but further, taking time to check the entire grove. Then he called the novices to him, again with the owl's hoot, and they convened in a small area ideal for a camp.

"Well if they were here," said Lucien lowly, "they aren't here anymore."

"Did we go the wrong way?" asked Gaël. "Maybe they took a different path."

Lucien shook his head. "You saw the smoke. They wouldn't know there is no sheltered place to camp for miles after this grove – they probably had hoped to cover more ground before nightfall."

Nadia looked to the east. There was barely enough light to see by. "Dawn is upon us."

"Do we press on?" asked Gaël. "Or send messages to the villages? Birds move faster than horses."

Lucien chewed his lip, a frankly childish habit he obeyed when deciding on something. Gaël tried not to smile.

"We'll pick up the trail and keep going. Nadia, fetch the horses."

The novice bowed her head and hastened to do as bidden, retreating down the path their quarry had used.

"Who are we following, exactly?" Gaël said. He'd asked before, to no definitive answer. Lucien sighed.

"I'm not sure."

Gaël frowned.

"Foreigners. Englishmen, I believe. A report from Lyon said they'd passed through there, on the day the bishop and a recruit were murdered. They allegedly passed through Chambéry as well."

"Where the noble of the House of Savoy and his manservant were killed," said Gaël.

"Indeed."

"You think they are responsible?"

"I doubt you do."

Gaël shifted, sheepish. "I know you think the White Liberator is a myth."

"If he wasn't, he wouldn't have made it out of Italy to begin with. That is, if Ezio Auditore is as good as they say he is."

"He's had his hands full in Rome. No one can be in two places at once."

"Not alive, they can't."

"They say Ezio can find any man without so much as a footprint to follow."

"They also say he flew across Venice in a contraption that looked like a giant bat. Don't listen to such stories, boy. The Mentor of Italy is a man just like any other."

"A man really good at what he does."

"So they say."

They waited in silence for Nadia to join them with their horses. When Gaël could see her coming around the last bend, he said, "I wish you hadn't let her come."

"Experience is the—"

"Best teacher, I know. But this...this is just..."

"Dangerous? Risky? If you thought being an Assassin meant running around in robes giving out food to the poor, you should have knocked on a church door, not my den's."

Gaël felt heat creep up his neck. "I knew what I wanted. What I had to do. But my sister..."

"Made her own choice. That is, after all, what we're fighting for, no? Choice. Freedom."

He licked his lips and then kept them shut.

Five minutes had the youngest Assassin and three horses in the grove. By then, Lucien had already picked up the trail.

"They're good. Very good. I was lucky I spotted this." He pointed to a partial hoof print in the mud. Gaël frowned.

"They know they're being followed."

"Yes. Which is why we'll be on our guard. If they are responsible for the Assassin's death in Lyon..." Lucien mounted his horse, his companions following suit. "I'll kill them myself," he muttered, so softly Gaël barely heard.

* * *

Will heard just fine, for he was barely three metres away. Completely wrapped in his green-grey mottled cloak, hood up and as still as the tree trunks, he was invisible. The questionable shadows were invaluable aid, as were the Assassins' assumptions that their quarry, all five of them, had moved on.

What Will could make out with his limited French disheartened him. The Englishmen _were_ being hunted, and even though the Assassins had heard of the Liberator, they didn't seem to think him real. And Will still didn't know if there were more search parties climbing around in these mountains.

 _I'll just have to be careful_ , he thought, watching the trio start down the path, into the valley below. Once they were a safe distance away, Will retreated, finding Tug deeper in the trees. The horse remained silent as he'd been told, not stamping, snorting, or even shaking his mane. Will climbed into the saddle.

"Let's go, bud."


	7. A Time in Florence

**Recap: The Assassins continue north to seek the White Liberator, a yet cold trail. Ezio struggles with the burden of keeping the Apple of Eden, its secrets and its visions. The poor dear.**

* * *

~7~ A Time in Florence

 _At first there was just one man. Red-headed, greying at the temples, face creased with mirth lines. He sat at a desk overladen with scrolls and documents. He was looking over an odd cube-like artifact. Another man appeared. Short, grim, hair more silver than black and in a green-grey mottled cloak. The first man gave him the cube. He left._

 _Black. Days passed in the blink of an eye. The red-haired man was at his desk again, writing. The quill stopped. He stiffened. Looked up. Someone broke down the door with a single kick. The man stood. Showed no fear. He pointed for the intruders to leave. It was gone. What they wanted was gone. They didn't believe him. They seized him, pinned him to the wall. Others came in and tore the office apart. It_ was _gone. All their planning and spying was for nothing. They beat the man. He gave them nothing. He fought back. Escaped, bruised and bleeding. His attackers fled. One made for the nearest coop, sending a pigeon off into the evening sky._

 _Black again. Both time and space vanished into the void. The old man in green appeared. Outside, sitting on the edge of a fountain. He turned the puzzle cube over and over in his hands. A scream. He looked up and dashed out of view._

 _Now he was chasing someone, someone dressed in white and black robes, armed to the teeth. At the old man's side was a younger one, wearing a green cloak like him. The young man dashed ahead, after the man in white._

 _He pursued him across a city of stone, shingle and thatch. Cornered him. The man in white turned, revealing a patch with a strange, familiar symbol over one eye. The symbol flashed with stark white brilliance—_

And was still burned into Ezio's retinas as he jerked awake, head swirling with vertigo. If one could get dizzy in their sleep, he did.

He groaned, covering his eyes until the sensation faded. But the eldritch symbol remained, smouldering behind his eyelids like a brand. Instead of wondering at it, contemplating that he had seen it before, he mentally cursed the Apple of Eden.

Flashes of the past, future, and present were not as rare as he would like. Sometimes they were straightforward. Sometimes they were ambiguous. Sometimes they were like tonight's – a mishmash of images that somehow flowed, giving only the important details. But were they past? Present? Or were they to be encounters of times ahead?

Ezio rubbed his eyes. Unlike most of the visions the Apple gave him, he believed this one to be of importance. He'd never seen those men in green cloaks before, nor did he recognize the silver cube, made up of smaller cubes, that was in their possession. But he did know that it was a precursor artifact, just like the Apple, and that somebody – likely Templars – tried to steal it too late from its guardians.

Then there was the man in white robes. Had Ezio seen him in person, he likely would have accepted him as one of the brotherhood, as an Assassin. But the Apple would not show him a random Assassin being chased by the men in green. No. In his heart, Ezio knew it was the White Liberator. And he, too, had a precursor artifact. Ezio had no idea what it was or what it did, but the symbol on the Liberator's eye patch was unmistakable. And that just made him more dangerous.

Nearby, Lauro muttered and rolled over in his sleep, tucking an arm under his chest and burrowing his face into his sleeping roll. Somewhere further from the glow of the fire, the soft sounds of carving could be heard. Pedro was whittling away the hours with a lump of wood and carving knife.

"My watch isn't over, Ezio," he said gently. "Go back to sleep."

Ezio realized blearily that he had barely woken up. And so it was with ease he slipped back into the void, knowing that, sooner or later, he was going to have to come clean with his companions. He was going to have to tell them everything. About the Apple. About the First Civilization. Everything.

* * *

From atop a pillar of an ancient Roman ruin, Ezio could see the land from the eyes of an eagle.

The Apennines held up the sky to the east, impeding the sunrise. Woodland undulated like emerald waves to the four winds. When he inhaled, he fancied he could smell the coast to the west, but knew he was imagining it.

A few more miles north, and he would start to recognize the landscape. Already, though, he was feeling homesick.

 _Home? You haven't had a home for years._

More than once he'd considered skirting around Florence, ignoring it completely in favour of saving a day on the journey north. But his duty as grand master commanded that he take even a few hours to be informed of the city's standing. With Lorenzo de' Medici dead and Leonardo of Vinci back in Rome, his list of friends in his birthplace withered. But the Assassin presence held strong there, last he knew. The stop would be brief.

 _Ezio Auditore of Florence. It used to feel as true as it is. Perhaps when this is over, when I am done..._

The wearied Assassin looked down. Over four stories below, Lauro and Pedro were stirring. He caught faint snatches of their conversation, but knew not what they spoke of.

Ezio climbed down from the pillar, his chosen place to keep watch. It was his turn to prepare a meal and clean up. Both easy tasks – they were restricted to dry rations until they reached Florence. And then it was time to pack up and disguise the campsite. Each Assassin saddled his own horse, and when they left the area, they left little to show for it.

"We will reach Florence by this time tomorrow," said Ezio. "We will ride through the night."

The other two didn't complain, knowing that they had to reach the northern city-states before the White Liberator's trail grew cold again. It had already been months since he was last spotted in Italy, as far as Ezio knew, but dragging their feet wouldn't make anything easier. They ate in the saddle, stopping to stretch their legs and rest the horses briefly every hour as the day passed and the moon took dominance of the sky.

The jostling of his horse prevented Ezio from dozing off. It was now three in the morning, but he'd spent longer nights spying on Templars in their cozy villas and palaces without even yawning. This should have been an easy task.

 _I hate getting old_ , he thought sullenly.

The road continued to grow behind them. Hours later, he saw Giotto's tower and the dome of Saint Mary first, crowned in the rising sun. As the trees thinned, he made out more of Florence's spires and towers, and then the great wall surrounding her. The nostalgia kicked him in the gut, and he had no words as they entered the city of his birth.

A glance over his shoulder informed him of his companions' interest. He let them marvel after they left their horses in the stables and continued on foot. He could have shown them the sights few people ever got to see, but he had obligations to heed.

"...Go. Enjoy yourselves," he said at last, and he could see their excitement despite their efforts to appear stolid. He tossed them a bag of florins. "But don't forget to restock our supplies. Meet back at the stables at noon. If I'm not there, wait."

They placed their right fists over their hearts and bowed their heads before scurrying off, likely to get a closer look at Giotto's bell tower and, perhaps, see if they could climb it. No doubt they'd heard the stories that Ezio had once taken a leap of faith from its peak, landing safely in a cart of hay below. But that was ridiculous.

Now alone, he set out to seek an audience with the Florentine Assassins.

The one thing he found mildly frustrating about this particular bureau was that it was never in the same place twice. In fact, "bureau" wasn't even the proper title. It had no base and its leader couldn't be found unless he wanted to be found. An admirer of the Fox, Marcello preferred the idea of being groundless, for it made him a ghost of the city, as the Fox had been.

And either his recruits were very good or very lazy – Ezio hadn't yet seen one since stepping foot in Florence. A game played by many disciples and novices, they jumped at the chance to surprise their leader or, if the rare opportunity arose, the grand master himself. Ezio couldn't remember the last time he'd been bested by a pup, but he'd been on the road for nearly a week. He had to keep his weariness at bay.

He took to the rooftops after almost an hour of wandering, waiting for an Assassin to show himself and take him to Marcello. The only figures he saw up there were guards and the occasional thief. More aimless roaming started to tie knots in his gut. Surely, if something had happened to the Brotherhood of Florence, he would have caught wind of it.

As the sun heated up the clay tiles and sandstone walls, he began to search the places he remembered the bureau had met before. He found nothing in any of them but garbage from squatters. After the fourth place he checked, he finally caught sight of an Assassin.

Both relieved and annoyed, he hastened over to where she'd disappeared. He stopped at the edge of the roof, looking down but not seeing her. She was hiding beneath the eave.

"Enough fooling around," he growled. "Take me to Marcello."

She didn't respond, as though testing for a bluff.

"I said, enough."

Still nothing.

"Don't make me come after you."

There was another pause but the Assassin finally surrendered, climbing back onto the roof.

"Mentor," she said, making the gesture of respect. Her voice was rich and dark, like coffee, and her hand was the colour of said brew. Marcello had been widening his boundaries. Good.

"Name?"

"Bolade, mentor. Just Bolade."

"Take me to Marcello, Bolade," he said. She nodded and obeyed, flying across the rooftops with the wind. Ezio stayed right behind her, all the way to the innards of an unfinished tower overlooking the Arno. There, Marcello sat as though he'd been expecting Ezio.

"Hello, my friend!" The spindly man stood to clasp arms with him, smiling broadly. At least he remembered not to be so presumptuous as to hug Ezio this time. They had, after all, only known each other a couple years. "Just the hound I was hoping to see."

"And yet your recruits insist on playing their silly game until I'm more grey than black," toned Ezio, looking sideways at Bolade.

"Oh, come now. You're already there!" He smiled again at Ezio's scowl.

"Is there anything to report?"

"Yes, mentor." Marcello beckoned to a grey-robed novice, who didn't seem to notice the bird droppings on his shoulder. He must have been looking after the carrier pigeons. He handed over several small scrolls to Marcello, who gave them to Ezio. "A letter preceded you from Rome – we know you're hunting down the White Liberator. The _real_ White Liberator. These messages are from France, England, Spain and Greece. It seems your quarry had skipped country some time ago."

Ezio glanced through the tiny scrolls, each headed by the city from which they hailed. "He's been a busy man, I see."

"The letter from Rome also forwarded a note from the north: a witness in Milan claimed to have seen the Liberator's face. That was nearly a year ago, but it might be worth investigating."

"Indeed..."

"Mentor, surely you are not intending to go after such a troublemaker yourself. You have much on your plate, no? If you wish, I could send my own men—"

"We cannot afford anymore mistakes," said Ezio, slipping the scrolls into a pouch to read later. "He has evaded us once too often."

"...Ah, right, your... _hidden_ talent," said Marcello softly, hitting Ezio's arm with a suppressed grin. The older Assassin merely gave him a look until he squirmed.

"Is there anything else I should know?"

"No, mentor. It has been quiet, but...we await for the war that will surely come here."

"Just remember to keep out of the way," said Ezio, "and an ear to the ground."

"Of course, mentor. Good fortune to you."

* * *

Ezio had just been brought to Marcello when Lauro and Pedro returned to the stables. It was approaching the heat of the day and they welcomed the shelter, although they would have liked more free time to explore this city.

"It simply astounds me, how some people can imagine such beauty, and make it real," said Pedro, setting down a bag of newly purchased supplies. Lauro dropped his own beside it, leaning against the stall door of Ezio's horse. The dark bay nickered a greeting, sticking its head over the door.

"It can't be too far off from what you're doing." Lauro nodded at Pedro's saddle, which sat on a railing across the way. "I've seen you cut away at that chunk of wood."

Pedro flicked a hand. "I'm just fooling around. I used to do that when I was a child. To keep my hands busy."

"So those carved birds I saw you stash away when we both joined the brotherhood, those were from fooling around?"

The bigger man turned away to hide his face, kneeling to paw through the supplies. "Those were nothing."

He could practically hear Lauro's eye roll. "Right."

Pedro began to divide the supplies into three, making sure everything they needed was accounted for and wrapped properly. He was looking forward to having fresh food again, even if it wasn't as good as he was accustomed to, back at the den in Rome. He hopeless at cooking, but together, Ezio and Lauro prepared half-decent meals. Half-decent meaning it wasn't always burnt. Or too salty.

Pedro could hear his fellow disciple cursing his horse from inside its stall, no doubt damning to hell for biting his hair. Pedro shook his head and smiled faintly. He was attached to his horse. They all were. It wasn't encouraged, for such ties could be distracting in a time of battle. Horses were tools. Not friends.

That didn't stop him from naming his horse, though. Nor Lauro from naming his.

"Hello, Fool," said Pedro, wandering over to the stable with the blue-roan gelding. Fool's ears swivelled towards him, nostrils flaring.

 _Who are you calling Fool, fool?_ Pedro imagined him saying.

He'd familiarized himself with the beast years ago, when he was freshly promoted from novice and was on a simple mission with two companions. They were ambushed by Templars, and Pedro was unseated in the chaos. Stunned and helpless, he had just enough wits about him to notice the gelding holding his ground between him and their attackers, rearing and screaming and biting instead of galloping away. He got a few minor wounds, adding to Pedro's assumption that the damn creature was just stupid. But there was a reason why he chose this horse again for the quest the grand master had seen fit to bring him along for, and that was more than the beast's sturdy build and stamina.

The buckskin two stalls down also had a fitting name. Ever since he was a wobbly-legged colt, he enjoyed the reactions he got from biting hair and clothes. So Lauro named him Nipper, as did every other Assassin who'd ever had the misfortune of being his master. He was saved more for courier jobs, for he could run far and fast, likely because of the Arabian in his roots. But for some strange reason, Lauro had chosen him for this quest.

With Nipper being a young, frisky stallion, Ezio had selected an older, intelligent male who tolerated no nonsense. Although the Roman bloodline was notorious for being prone to illness and succumbing to the cold, this beast was as resilient as an ancient tree. A bit like his rider.

Pedro was itching to ask his mentor what he'd named the horse, for he knew he did. But he held his tongue, just in case.

"Whoops."

Lauro, burdened with the bay's saddle, looked down at the spilled documents at his feet. An open pouch spat out one more letter before Lauro set the saddle back down.

Pedro snorted. "Better put those back before old greybeard sees and thinks you're rooting through his things."

Lauro made a few mocking sounds as he knelt, brushing the papers together into a pile. "Make yourself useful and ready your damn horse."

Chuckling, Pedro turned away to do just that, entering Fool's stall and throwing a saddle blanket over his back. As he smoothed it down, he paused. The silence was running too long.

"...Lauro?"

The smaller man was still crouched in the dirt, but instead of picking up the documents, he was reading them.

"Lauro, what are you _doing?_ "

"I...I think I brought some of these to him," he muttered, frowning. "From that Arabic translator. I had no idea..."

"Put them back."

"No. Listen. _He stares at it. Day by day, night by night. I have to remind him to eat, to sleep. I tell him he must stop. It is consuming him. He has the whole brotherhood to look after, and cannot afford to lose himself in the far, distant past... That cursed Apple of Eden. I should have hidden it when I had the chance... My friend suffers..._ Malik of Masyaf wrote this, almost three hundred years ago." Lauro glanced up. "Don't look at me like that."

"If he sees you—"

"Pedro, the _Apple_ of _Eden_!"

"What the hell is that?"

"Don't be like this. You heard the rumours." Lauro stood, the documents a mess in his hands. "Do you think he has it with him?"

"Lauro..."

"Here, hold these." He shoved the papers into his friend's hands and went back over to the chestnut's saddle. Pedro glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowed, a hollow growing in his chest.

"Do you have any idea what he would do to us if he caught you?" he hissed.

"No. Do you?"

"No! And I have no wish to find out!"

Lauro stopped looking through the saddle, to Pedro's relief, and he took the letters back.

"You're right. I have no business pulling you into this."

Pedro's shoulders fell a little. "Thank you."

"Excuse me." Lauro slipped into a storage room, letters still in hand.

"Hey!"

"Keep watch. Please. I just want...ten minutes."

"Five."

"Seven."

"Grrr." Pedro moved to the open doorway of the stables, staying just within the shadows, making him difficult to see for those out in the sun.

It was a long seven minutes. True, Pedro burned with the same curiosity as his younger companion. But he was also the more sensible one. If Lauro got himself into trouble, Pedro was always there to get him out. Naturally, he had to tease him relentlessly about it, and sometimes put him back into the trouble he was in originally. This time, though, things were different. What was this Apple of Eden? Some kind of relic? Dark, ungodly magic? And why did their mentor bring all of those translated documents with him? They were going after the White Liberator, not enjoying a scholarly trip. Right?

 _The Apple of Eden_ , Pedro thought, leaning against a wood pillar, arms crossed. Splinters snagged on his robes. A curious name. The Bible never did mention any apple. Forbidden fruit, yes, but no apple. For all they knew, the forbidden fruit could have been a quince, or a lemon, or a kumquat.

He snorted. What did it matter. This artifact – Godly or not – couldn't be anything more than a glorified trinket. A venerated bauble. Anything more suggested technology that surpassed anything anyone alive had ever seen or ever will see. A world before theirs. Which was, of course, preposterous.

...The seven minutes seemed to be taking a very long time. Frowning, Pedro gave the street one last scan before retreating further into the cool gloom, towards the storage closet that smelled strongly of leather and tar.

"Deal is a deal. Put those papers back... Lauro?"

He didn't like the look on the other Assassin's face. Not one bit. It was pasty, his mouth slightly open, downcast eyes uncomprehending. It was the look of a man who had just seen everyone he loved, everyone he cared about, get torn away and burned alive. He sat cross-legged on the floor, notes and translations spread around him.

Somehow, Pedro knew. The man had been struck with a revelation, and it did not agree with him.

"Lauro. What have you done?" He knelt beside him, gently tugging a piece of parchment from his hands. Lauro didn't seem to realize at first, but then he turned haunted eyes up to Pedro.

"It's...it's not real. None of it."

"What?"

"Everything we know...everything we _thought_ we knew—"

Pedro grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Focus, man." He shook him again, rougher, until the veil lifted from his friend's eyes. In its place took embarrassment and shame.

"I'm... Forgive me." Lauro leaned back to pull out of Pedro's grasp, then began picking up all the papers, folding some to slip back into envelops, or else rolling them up and securing them with twine. Pedro waited patiently, but anxiously. It wasn't until every last document was back in the saddlebags that the tension melted from his body. Half of it, anyway.

"Now." He squared off to Lauro. "What did you see?"

Lauro was staring down, toying with a thread that had come loose on his sleeve. "...I think he wanted us to find those."

Pedro recoiled. "What?"

"Knowledge like that... He wouldn't just leave it in a side pocket out of negligence. Any thief could paw through it and find it."

"Lauro—"

"Think about it!"

"What does it matter?" Pedro cried. "What's on those papers that has gotten you so worked up?"

"The truth!" Lauro's face brightened. If Pedro didn't know him as well as he knew himself, he would have thought him half mad. "It's all there! Well...most of it."

"Lauro, you are not making sense. The truth about what?"

"Shh!" The smaller man stiffened, peering around Pedro, out the wide doorway of the stables. "He'll be back soon. Look, I'll get him to talk. Alright? I believe he wished us to find the translations, his notes, everything. But just to make sure...Just let me do the talking." He hastened to saddle Ezio's horse, tightening the girth before guiding the animal out. Pedro finished saddling Fool, then took his and Nipper's reins and followed, fresh apprehension gnawing at his innards.

* * *

Ezio arrived back at the stables at noon, right on schedule. Lauro and Pedro were already there, horses ready. Lauro handed him the reins of his horse, and Ezio nodded in gratitude before mounting and putting Florence behind him.

"Where to next, mentor?" asked Pedro.

"Milan," was the reply.

* * *

 **Aaaand another chapter in which nothing happened. Huzzah.**


	8. Revelations

**Recap: Ezio struggles with visions from the Apple, which showed him the Liberator and the green-clad archers who pursue him. He also learns the Liberator has his own Piece of Eden. After stopping in Florence to resupply, Ezio and his companions continue north. Having read some of Ezio's notes on the First Civilization, Lauro wonders how he is going to bring it up without his mentor tearing him a new one.**

* * *

~8~ Revelations

When Lauro said he would get Ezio to talk, it was without any forethought or planning on his part. It was mental, what he wanted to talk about. A whole world, a civilization, ruled by different beings who might have made the human race – through science, not Creation – thousands of years ago? Such revelations would overturn every table of every religion known to man. Lauro could barely comprehend it himself, to the point of actually questioning his teacher's mentality.

Apart from the topic being outrageous, how was he going to bring it up without letting Ezio know of his snooping? He did feel that the grand master had wanted him and Pedro to find the notes eventually. But if Ezio hadn't, if his judgment had merely lapsed for a moment, then the repercussions might very well be severe. He might send Lauro home, or subject him to strenuous training, or...or...

Or, what?

The more he thought about it, the less his guts felt cramped. He didn't do anything wrong. Not really. Curiosity and paying attention to seemingly immaterial details was greatly encouraged in the brotherhood. If Ezio didn't want anyone to read those papers, he would have been more careful in concealing them. Those age lines and silver hairs belied the strength of mind Ezio still possessed.

No, it wasn't a mistake. It wasn't!

Was it?

"You've been awfully quiet, Lauro. Is there something on your mind?"

Lauro flinched, looking at his superior, riding a few paces ahead.

"W-what? No, mentor."

"Not a word since this afternoon. It is not like you."

He swallowed, shooting a sideways look at Pedro. But his friend had his hood up, despite the clinging heat.

"I'm tired, that's all."

Miles passed underfoot, their shadows stretching long and lean to the east. And finally, Lauro could stand it no more.

"Mentor?"

Ezio half turned to his left. "What?"

"Will...will you tell us about the Reliquary?"

Ezio was quiet for a dangerously long time. "Mariella has a loose tongue, I suppose."

Lauro shifted, making his saddle creak. "No! No...um...I, uh..."

"Spit it out, boy."

"I read them."

"Read what?"

Lauro blushed at his own scrambled thoughts. "I read the papers. Your papers. The translated ones. Written by Malik. And your notes on...everything."

"...We will camp here for the night." Ezio suddenly steered his horse off the road, making Fool toss his head irritably as he nearly walked into a dark bay rump. Pedro patted him calm before casting Lauro a look, nodding. Lauro inhaled deeply before following the others towards a grove, several metres away from the road.

With an unspoken command Lauro scouted the area while Ezio and Pedro tended their horses, removing saddles and bridles before brushing them down and picketing them near food and water. The youngest Assassin returned just as the others began to set up camp. Not a word passed between them, everyone acting like no one had said or done anything unusual. And that just made Lauro feel worse.

Ezio started a fire before grabbing the freshly killed rabbit hanging from the side of his saddle, skinning, gutting and spitting it on a green stick. Lauro cared for his horse before fishing out a few potatoes, filched from a farm that afternoon, and he rubbed off most of the dirt before pushing them into the coals, making sure they were well buried. Pedro returned from the stream, having filled the water skins and the kettle for tea. Finally, they were all sitting around the fire, dusk falling swiftly, drawing away heat and light with every passing moment. And still no words were spoken.

Lauro nervously braided three long strands of grass together, glancing once up at his mentor, whose eyes flicked with flames but showed no anger. Ezio leaned forward to turn the spitted rabbit, which was propped up between two forked branches stabbed into the ground on either side of the fire. Fatty juices dripped into the embers, hissing and spitting. Satisfied with the cooking rate, he relaxed back against the log. After dividing the night's portion of tea leaves into three mugs, Pedro sat back as well, and drew out a misshapen lump of wood and a carving knife from inside his robes. He began to whittle away at the wood, seeing potential for art where Lauro only saw potential for splinters.

Ezio shifted, stretching one leg out before bringing the other up and resting his elbow on his knee. Lauro flinched, although he knew not why, and he felt the grand master's gaze move to him. He swallowed, blushed, and forced himself to meet his eye. He held it, even when Ezio finally spoke.

"Pedro, you have two minutes to hide. Go."

The other Assassin stopped carving. "What?"

"Two minutes. Get going."

Bewilderment plain on his face, Pedro dropped the wood and knife and made for the trees. Ezio meanwhile had closed his eyes and put his fingers in his ears, softly humming a tune Lauro did not recognize. When it was over, Ezio lowered his hands and opened his eyes before standing, brushing dirt off his rump. Lauro stood as well but took no further action. Normally he would have assumed this to be a training exercise, for both him and Pedro. His tracking against Pedro's stealth. But then why would Ezio blind himself as he did?

The grand master took a deep breath through his nose, then released it. He turned in a circle, stopping when he was facing the direction Pedro had gone.

"Come."

Lauro didn't need to be told, but he was still hesitant. It was dark. Even he wouldn't be able to track Pedro until daybreak. And yet Ezio had caught the scent straight away.

 _Lucky guess_ , he told himself, following his mentor out of camp.

The further they went, the more apprehensive Lauro became. And the more enthralled. Ezio never once knelt to check for tracks, broken twigs or crushed plants. He paused at random intervals to take another deep breath, but not out of weariness. He followed an invisible trail, first this way, then that, between trees, over logs, around shrubbery and across a small glade. Lauro followed like a puppy, never more than a few paces behind the white spectre who couldn't possibly know where he was going.

"Mentor—"

"Hush."

Lauro swallowed meekly and remained silent as they reentered the trees and walked another couple dozen metres. Finally, Ezio stopped, and this time, when he took his deep breath, he did not keep walking. Instead he turned to his companion.

"Well?"

Lauro could only stare for a few seconds, but with a jolt he realized what Ezio wanted. He turned his gaze upwards. As a bird takes to higher ground when threatened or hunting, so does an Assassin. The moon's rays peered through the many branches and leaves, crystallizing them in silver. But no matter how hard he looked, he could not spot Pedro's white robes in the canopy.

"...I don't see him, mentor. Are you sure this is...?"

Ezio walked past him, towards a log half buried in loam and deadfall. With one hand he brushed old leaves away, revealing a patch of white. Lauro could only stare as Ezio unearthed Pedro, who was similarly stunned and remained prone even after his face was exposed, as though thinking himself still invisible.

"How...? But you... _How_?"

Ezio allowed himself a small smile before stepping back and letting Pedro stand, dirt and leaves showering off his body. Both disciples stared at their mentor with shameless astonishment. For certain Ezio was a good Assassin – hence his leadership of the entire Italian brotherhood – but this...this was inhuman.

"Come. We have much to discuss."

* * *

But they discussed nothing until their bellies were full and they were coveting warm clay mugs of tea around the fire. Lauro could barely retain his patient silence, and by Pedro's posture, he was the same.

Ezio picked at mud that had caked onto his trousers, other hand holding his tea. He glanced up. "...What are you two staring at?"

Pedro cleared his throat. "With all due respect, mentor...if you do not tell us what just happened, I'm going to strangle you."

"I see. And you?" Ezio looked to Lauro.

"I'll help him hide your corpse."

"Fair enough." Ezio stretched his neck and back, releasing a breath through his nose. Then he turned to Pedro. "I found you, using my skills as an Assassin."

A more unsatisfactory answer had never been uttered. Lauro made a sound of protest. "You didn't even look at the ground! Not once!" They had followed their teacher back to camp, retracing their steps exactly. Pedro had muttered to Lauro that it was the very same path he'd taken when seeking a place to hide. But without looking for tracks, how could Ezio have possibly followed the trail? Never mind find Pedro at the end.

"Do you believe," said Ezio slowly, carefully, "that I could have tracked you down even if you had sprouted wings and flown to your hiding place?"

Pedro stared blankly. "That's impossible."

"You sprouting wings, yes. Me finding you, no."

The disciples shared a look. Astonishment was making room for something more primal. Fear.

"Mentor, what are you saying?" said Lauro.

"Don't pretend you haven't heard the rumours. At the same time, discard everything you'd ever heard. I am no angel and I did not sell my soul to the devil."

Lauro blushed. "I suppose I can't say that hadn't crossed my mind."

"I did not use Pedro's footprints to find him because I did not need to. His scent was enough."

"Pardon me?" Pedro recoiled. "My what?"

"Your scent. I suppose it's not really a smell, but that's the best that I can describe it, for I used my nose to follow it."

Lauro shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense. No one can smell things _that_ well." He glanced sideways at his friend. "Even if their prey needs a bath."

Pedro made a face. "Kiss my ass."

"When I got close enough, I spotted you," Ezio continued, unaffected by the interruption.

Again Lauro looked doubtful. "He was completely buried."

"It doesn't matter. I saw his life force."

As Malik of Masyaf's notes had made Lauro question the mental health of Ezio Auditore, so now did his words. And yet, he'd seen it all happen with his very eyes.

"That's how you spotted those farm dogs before I did," said Pedro softly. "And the killer in the tree."

Ezio nodded. "It was. It was how I was able to deduce what had happened in the barn and the house. My sense allows me to see blood like a light in the dark."

"Are there others like you?"

This time, he paused. He picked up a pebble and turned it over and over in his fingers, staring at it. "There must be. My father knew I had it, so perhaps he did too."

"So it's a family thing?" said Lauro. "We can't...learn it?"

Ezio chuckled. "If I could teach it, I would. Then perhaps I wouldn't feel so—" He cut himself off, the pebble now held still. He cleared his throat and tossed it away. "If you're wondering if there are other families like mine, I can only imagine so. It isn't a trait to flounce around."

Sensing what Ezio had been about to say before cutting himself off, Lauro looked away. He'd feel lonely too, having a unique ability he could not share or talk about with anyone.

"Not that this is making much sense," he said, "but what does it have to do with...with what I asked you about? This Reliquary Malik Al-Sayf wrote about."

The reluctance to continue was obvious in Ezio's demeanour. He shifted, and like a horse sensing its rider's nervousness, Lauro became ill at ease. Never had he thought he would see his mentor so unsure of himself.

"I wanted you to open your minds, and show you rather than rattle on like a madman. If I had told rather than shown you what I can do, would you have believed me?"

Lauro shook his head sheepishly.

"And I wouldn't have blamed you. Now I ask you to keep your mind open." Ezio moved to a more comfortable position, while both Pedro and Lauro sat forward, curiosity open on their features.

"Malik's research is the first and only source I've found on the so-called Reliquary," Ezio began. "I don't know much about it, only that it is old. Very, very old."

"Do you think it has something to do with the Apple of Eden?" asked Pedro. Ezio's face tightened.

"How do you know about that?"

"Everyone knows about that. You used it against your last confrontation against Cesare Borgia's forces in Rome. Is it true? Can it control minds?"

"Yes. But—"

"Do you have it with you?"

"Um—"

"What is the Apple, exactly?" asked Lauro eagerly.

"I don't know."

"Do you think the Reliquary has more artifacts like it?"

"I don't know."

"Is the Reliquary from the First Civilization? The Ones Who Came—?"

"I don't _know_ ," Ezio snapped. "Stop asking so many questions."

The disciples ducked their heads and shut their mouths. Ezio sighed.

"I don't know what you've gleaned from my notes, so I'm going to start from the beginning. Well, the beginning as I understand it..."

None of them got much sleep that night. Ezio spoke of the superhuman beings called the Isu, who were smarter, stronger, taller, and better in every way. They inhabited the earth thousands of years ago, and it was they, not God, who created the human race, by means of science. Humans worshipped them, and prospered under their guidance. Some were bred to be a better animal, although not nearly to the level of an Isu – that was the beginning of Ezio's bloodline.

Aside from creation, the Ones Who Came Before had many wondrous technologies. Devices that used blood to locate and spy on the corresponding person from anywhere on Earth. Weapons that could call down lightning, or heal the grievously wounded. They even had the means to view potential futures. And that was how they saw their impending doom.

They saw that the sun was to lash out with a fiery fury and engulf the world, possibly annihilating them and their creation in the span of a few seconds. And so, with their fantastical devices and determination to beat mother nature, they spent the last years of their existence trying to prevent the inevitable. They did not succeed. How anything survived the solar flare was yet a mystery to Ezio. Perhaps the Isu had made a sanctuary that kept some people and a few artifacts safe. But then, why had no Isu survived? All that remained of them were a few projections, somehow preserved like living messages, in temples hidden beneath the earth. Minerva, the first Isu Ezio had ever seen, was below the Vatican. Juno resided under the Colosseum. Ezio knew of Jupiter, but had yet to "meet" him.

Yes, they had the names of pagan gods. Or rather, the gods had the names of the Isu. For every lie, there was a grain of truth.

These living, projected messages were interactive, able to answer Ezio's questions and confound him to no end. But make no mistake – the Isu were dead. Only their legacies remained, and their warning.

Ezio leaned back and took a sip of his tea, only to grimace. It was stone cold.

"Wait, what warning?" Lauro demanded, bewildered and astonished and fearful all at once.

But Ezio shook his head. "That is something I will keep to myself."

"But—"

"Not many in our order possess so much knowledge as you now do. It is a delicate subject, not to be thrown about to those who are not ready."

"You believed us ready?" asked Pedro.

Ezio permitted a ghost of a smile. "No. Aside from being delicate, it is also a heavy burden. I took a chance bringing both Malik's work and you two with me, and this is the consequence. I only ask you not to go spreading word around. If the wrong people hear it, the results could be dire."

"Templars," said Lauro. Ezio nodded.

"Yes, but also the Church. They don't much enjoy being told they are wrong."

"Why _did_ you bring Malik's work along?" said Pedro.

"Reading material."

By Pedro's look, Lauro could tell he wasn't impressed. After a few seconds of silence, Ezio relented.

"The last Malik wrote about the Reliquary was a potential location. 'Many days and nights across the sea of pirates, in the land of the Raśna.' Where that is, I did not find out before we set off from Rome. It could be anywhere around the Mediterranean. I brought the documents along just in case we happened to cross paths with these Raśna."

Pedro shuffled, then asked once more, "Do you have the Apple of Eden?"

When Ezio first began, he had looked reluctant to relinquish such information. He'd been slow to start, choosing words carefully, looking anywhere but his companions and seeming to be almost bashful. Perhaps he'd been afraid they would think him mad and not listen to another word that came out of his mouth. But as he spoke and they listened, he had gained confidence, relishing the opportunity to share his burden. Now, the hesitance returned.

Which, of course, was answer enough.

"Can we see it?" said Lauro.

Ezio gazed evenly at him, then slowly reached down for a pouch on his belt. When he touched it, the hairs on the back of Lauro's neck stood up, a tingle spreading between his shoulder blades. His slight recoil to his body's reaction was caught by Ezio's sharp eye, and he stopped, releasing the pouch.

"No. You are not ready."

"But..." Lauro looked desperately to Pedro, and was surprised to see him scratching the back of his neck, his nerves obviously reacting the same way.

"What was that?" he asked softly.

Ezio shrugged. "A sign that we have discussed enough for one night." He looked to the stars. "There is still five hours until dawn. I'll keep watch first. I have much to think about."

* * *

 **Ranger chapter next, folks. If I ever...you know...start writing this again...**


	9. A Change of Plans

**Heh. Hi.**

 **So...as you might have guessed, my inspiration and interest in writing have completely withered up. I want to finish this story, but...damn, it'll be tough. Can't promise that I will complete it, but I will put the effort in to do so. Maybe.**

 **You might want to read the recaps of the previous chapters. It's been nearly a year.**

 **Recap: Will and his companions are following the trail of the White Liberator (stupid name) south through the Alps, towards Italy. They notice they are being tracked by Assassins who think the Rangers responsible for the death of one of their brethren in Lyon. Halt leads the others on while Will stays behind to tail the Assassins, to discover their intentions.**

* * *

~9~ A Change of Plans

The fog came in the night, opaque and cold and dreary, rolling between the mountains like a wave through rocks. Clinging long into the morning, it left nothing untouched; moisture beaded every stone, stem and leaf, and the horse and rider too.

"Sorry about this, Tug," Will muttered, huddled in his cloak, hands under his armpits. The shaggy little horse sneezed in response, grey coat darkened and mane curled by the damp. He was tense – Will could feel his tight little body. He was unsettled by the thickness of the fog, restricting vision to mere feet, and muffling sounds and smells. It was his job to keep his human safe, and all of his senses were reduced to a small bubble.

 _If I had my way, we'd stop until it cleared,_ he seemed to say.

Stop. Proceed. It was a difficult decision to make. For the past few days, he'd easily been able to keep a safe distance from the three French Assassins, who were tailing Will's companions, who were in turn following the White Liberator. But now, with this fog, it was all he could do to not fall behind or onto the Assassins' laps.

"But the Liberator would continue. So Halt will, and the Assassins," Will muttered.

 _Are you telling me or yourself?_ Tug asked.

Not knowing the Assassins' intentions, nor if there were more groups clambering about the Alps, Will dared not attack. He had already endangered the Ranger Corps by being in the wrong place at the wrong time in Lyon. What Will did know was that the three he now tailed believed the green-clad Englishmen had something to do with an Assassin's death. Their leader thought the Liberator – the real killer – a myth, and he was looking for blood. Will could not give them or their brethren any reason to turn hostile on the Rangers of England.

At least not without the Templars there to provide protection.

Tug's hoof caught a loose stone and he nickered in surprise, jostling Will as he regained his balance. Will patted his shoulder, weary of the gently sloping path before them. It had been days since he last saw another face, the closest thing being the grey hoods of the Assassins, from a hundred metres away, before the infernal fog rolled in.

"Easy."

 _Clack. Clack. Clack._

Will withheld a groan. The lumpy stretches of grass and dirt made way for smooth rolls of stone. Not only did that make travelling noisier, but it made tracking more difficult.

"Hold up, there, bud." Will dismounted, rooting through his saddlebags for the linen socks used for muffling hooves. As he searched, he strained his ears for anything other than Tug's breathing.

There was something...

 _Shick. Click. Clack._

Will's head whipped around. It had come from the right and up. A rock breaking loose and tumbling down an unseen cliff and echoing over and over. Will had had no idea he had walked right into a ravine.

Tug whinnied, high and soft.

"What? _Now_ you smell someone?"

The horse gave him a withering glare, but settled as Will stroked his nose.

"Let's get out of here."

Before he could so much as mount, he felt a deep rumble through his feet. Tug's eyes widened but he did not flee, training defying instinct. Will felt the same urge, especially when the sounds of screaming horses and men were quickly overpowered by the thunderous roar of a collapsing cliff face.

"Landslide!" Will jumped into the saddle and wheeled Tug around, urging him back the way they'd come. The fog swirled and blasted on ahead of them, displaced by the tonnes of stone, and tripling their range of vision. It was how Will managed to stop Tug before they mowed down the man who had appeared from nowhere.

Will cursed himself for not stringing his bow that morning. _An unstrung bow is a stick_ , Halt had drilled into his head during his apprenticeship. But he had his throwing knife, which, although had lower range, still had great accuracy. He drew it.

"Stay your hand."

Will froze, recognizing the voice. "You!"

It was the Templar from Lyon, who had given Will a map of a secret tunnel beneath Lyon's walls, allowing him and his friends to escape the city. He should have known he would cross paths with him again, that the man had not done it out of the goodness of his heart.

The Templar bowed his head, sandy hair falling over his eyes. "We were pleased to see you made it out of the city, _monsieur_. I trust you found the passage beneath the theatre of Fourvière with no trouble?"

Will chanced a glance behind him. The fog was still too thick to see further down the ravine, but it was now silent. No doubt the landslide blocked his way forward.

"How did you find me? What are you doing here?" he demanded of the Frenchman, who, as before, appeared unarmed. He was dressed for travel but seemed too tidy and clean.

"We followed you," said the Templar. "As for what we're doing, is it not obvious?"

Will remained stolid despite his hood. One good deed did not put this man into his ring of trusted friends.

"...Those Assassins were hunting your companions, Ranger. If you should know anything about people such as they, it is that you never give them a chance to strike first."

Again Will looked over his shoulder, a pit spawning in his gut. Those screams... "That landslide. You caused it. You killed them."

"Would you rather it had been your fellow Englishmen? It was only a matter of time before the Assassins made their move."

"But why?"

The Templar stared, then beckoned him. "We must talk, _monsieur_."

Will remained on Tug, whose ears were swivelling back and forth. He could feel the horse rumble deep in his chest, and Will patted his shoulder to let him know he understood. More Templars were wandering about in the fog around them.

"If we wanted you dead, Ranger, you would be already."

"If you'd tried, _you_ would have been dead before you could realize your mistake."

A ghost of a smile appeared on the man's lips. He turned his gaze upward, and Will's eyes automatically flicked up. A golden hue was burning through the fog.

"At last," said the Templar. "Light. Well, _monsieur_ , if you do not wish to listen, we shall allow you to continue on your way. But, _s'il vous pla_ _î_ _t_ , join us for a cup of _caf_ _é_. I swear on my mother's grave, no harm will come to you."

 _Coffee?_ Will couldn't help but straighten. Feeling like he was stepping among sleeping wolves, he nodded.

"Very good. _Suis moi_ , Ranger."

The Templars had struck camp further up the mountain, reached via a path barely wide enough for a horse. By the time they arrived, most of the fog had melted, large blankets of it floating away with the mountains' breath. Simple- but finely-dressed servants were preparing breakfast for the returning Templars, whose numbers hovered around a dozen. If Will hadn't known who they were, he would have thought them a royal delegation or escort.

After caring for Tug, Will followed the sandy-haired Templar, who had introduced himself as Philippe Dumont, to one of the two fires that had been lit. Without commands the servants came forward and gave him a change of jacket before offering small cups filled with dark brew. He accepted one, then gestured for Will to do the same. Although inwardly disappointed at the portion, Will was grateful all the same, and smiled warmly at the servant in thanks. The man merely nodded slightly before moving away.

"Sugar?" Philippe held up a tiny glass bowl with a lid shaped like a rose. Will blinked. Sugar was a luxury, saved for the richest and most important individuals. Theoretically, Rangers have the ranking to be eligible for such a treat, but tended to decline it anyway.

"Or perhaps honey?" Philippe continued, seeing Will's hesitation. That, at least, was more familiar.

"Please." Will accepted a jar and spoon, scooping an amount proportional to the small cup of coffee.

"Now. Let us talk business."

 _Business?_ Will remained stolid, hands wrapped around the cup.

"We know you have undertaken a dangerous task, one that has both astounded and impressed us."

"We?"

"The Templar Order. Of course you've heard of us."

Will nodded. "But I must admit I don't know much of who you are."

"Hopefully by the end of our little discussion, you will know a little more, and trust us as well."

Will braced himself. As soon as one mentioned trust, the other must be weary. Philippe didn't seem to notice.

"The so-called _Lib_ _é_ _rateur Blanc_. A dog loosened by the Assassins to prey on Templars, killing anyone who gets in his way." The man sipped coffee daintily. He seemed too out of place out on this rocky plateau, as though this was his first day as a field man. "We want him caught just as much as you do."

"So the men he killed, they _were_ Templars?" said Will. That had been a question he'd held about the Liberator.

Philippe nodded. "His targets were. Everyone else had been unfortunate bystanders, but his intended prey was made clear by the crosses the Liberator carved into their flesh."

Will frowned. The latest kill, a member of the House of Savoy in Chambéry, was found with crosses carved into his corpse. His manservant – what was his name? Dorian. Olivier Dorian – was found dead as well. Dead but unmarked. One of the "unfortunate bystanders."

"We have tried to stop him, but it is like catching smoke with our bare hands," Philippe continued. "It was as though only the Assassins' best trained him before releasing him."

Will frowned, not to be misguided. "You don't know if he's an Assassin."

"If not one of them, then what is he? He dresses as they do, uses their weapons, and he hunts Templars, some of whom had retired from the order. Not only that, but he has evaded us time and time again. England, France, Greece, Italy – it is as though he knows where we will be before we do. The Assassins must be protecting him, letting him do the work their 'creed' would otherwise prevent them from doing."

"But I thought the Assassins were after him as well," said Will. "In Lyon, a member was killed trying to take him down."

"Every group has their freelancers and extremists," said Philippe. "I would say that unfortunate young man did not agree with his superiors in allowing the Liberator to work as a loose cannon."

Will downed the last of his coffee, and was pleased when the servant rushed to refill his cup. " _Merci_ ," he said, and this time the servant smiled lightly before retreating.

The Ranger considered his words carefully as he added honey to his drink. "No disrespect intended, Philippe, but we are not tracking the Liberator for you or anyone other than Lady Justice. The King's Rangers are not an order driven by philosophy nor are we pawns to those who are. We answer to no one but England."

Philippe bowed his head. "Therein lies our problem. And the next tidbit of news I know you'll find particularly disturbing." He snapped his fingers, and a servant came forward with a scroll small enough to be carried by a pigeon. Philippe took it and waved the servant away.

"Neutral grounds or not, the Templars have been keeping an eye on your corps. Not interfering, not interacting. Just watching. Before you get angry," he added as Will opened his mouth, "know that something has come of it. We received this when passing through Chambéry." He passed Will the scroll, and the Ranger set his cup down to unravel and read it. The more he read, the paler he got.

"Crowley," he muttered.

"Attacked in his own office but a couple weeks ago. As you can see, witnesses claimed to have seen men in white robes climbing out the windows that very night, leaving in a hurry."

"But why?" Despite the message saying Crowley had survived and was now under careful guard by order of King Henry ( _Bet he's loving that_ , Will thought dryly), his guts churned at the thought of the jovial commandant being harmed in such a way.

"We don't know for sure," said Philippe gravely. "But we think the Assassins were looking for something in the commandant's possession. Something that was his possession no longer."

Will met his eye, steeled. "You know what it is."

"We believe we know what it looks like. A silver cube, made up of smaller cubes." Philippe imitated the size with his hands. "And we do know that, if Commandant Crowley had an inkling of an idea of what it was, he would have cast it into the sea years ago."

Will looked at the scroll again. The incident was dated not long after he, Halt and the others had set off from Northampton. And suddenly his mind was brought back to their brief stay in Lyon, when Will had barged into Halt's room, to find the old Ranger hiding a silver cube-like artifact in his bags. A curious trinket, one he'd hadn't given much thought to after their escape from Lyon and beginning their trek through the Alps.

"...Do you know what I speak of?" asked Philippe.

Being an iron mask, Will lied easily. "No."

"But your superior, he must know of it."

"So what if he did?"

"I'm not threatening you, Will Treaty," said Philippe. "You or your company. Did we not just take measures to protect them?"

"Then what is it that you want?" Will demanded. "With all of this talk, you have yet to mention that."

Philippe's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The Ranger Corps has been balancing on a dangerous line for decades. You claim to work for your king, _oui_ , but it was only a matter of time before two much older groups decided you must either join, or die."

He'd said he wasn't threatening the Rangers, but right now, Will was feeling threatened. "We mean neither of you any harm, unless you threaten the crown or the subjects of England."

"It doesn't matter. The Assassins nearly murdered your commandant. They were hunting you through these blasted mountains, waiting for the moment to strike. They blame you for the death of one of their own. They are tired of waiting, and have made the choice for you."

Will swallowed. "I did not kill that Assassin. The Liberator did."

"I know. But they don't. It does not fit what they want to believe, so they don't believe it." Philippe leaned forward. "I'm not asking you to join our ranks, Will. But if you want your brethren safe, to not be hunted to extinction, I only ask that you earn our favour, and ultimately our protection."

Will downed the last of the coffee, scalding his throat. He briefly wished it had been something stronger.

"For curiosity's sake, what kind of favour are you asking us of?"

"Simple. Continue to hunt the Liberator. He knows Templars but Rangers are an isolated group, unique to England. Perhaps you will be able to succeed where we have failed time and time again. In addition..." He paused, but he already had Will's full attention. "We want what your commandant had already passed on to your superior."

"But I don't know what that—"

"Find out, then!" Philippe barked. He quickly calmed. "Trust me when I say, that is not a stone you want to turn, _jeune homme_."

 _Clink-clink-clink. Clink-clink-clink. Clink-clink-clink._ Will strummed his fingers on the glass cup. A needlessly weighty item.

"You aren't going any further," he deduced. Looking around the camp, at the clean clothes and ridiculous luxuries.

Philippe shook his head. "No. We have not yet attained permission to enter Italy. Our order has certain boundaries, you understand. But know that the Templars will continue to watch over you whenever possible. With those three Assassins dead, you should be in the clear for a while longer."

 _Unless they are watching the Liberator as you so boldly claimed_ , Will thought, but remained stolid.

"Thank you for the coffee," he said, and stood.

"You will not stay for breakfast?"

"I must press on. My companions will need to be informed of the...latest developments."

Philippe nodded. "Very well. Consider what I have told you. I have contacts in Turin who can discuss the platform of our order in great detail if you're interested, and if Commandant Crowley accepts our offer in England, it will be easier for you to assimilate when you return home."

Will bristled inwardly but smiled. "Of course."

"One more thing." Philippe stood as well, a full head taller than the Ranger. "Another warning. Italy is restless. That makes it easy for more unsavoury characters to move about anonymously."

"I can handle unsavoury," said Will.

" _Oui_ , but what about dangerous?" He looked grim. "The Italian Brotherhood is not so subtle as that of France. They are led by the most malignant, dishonourable man I have ever had the misfortune of reading about. He ignited chaos in the streets of Florence in order to steal a trinket invaluable to our Order. He murdered the doge of Venice and his successor because he could. He made _two_ attempts on Pope Alexander's life, and managed the second time last year." Philippe scowled. "He aims high. It only seems right that those Assassins, those vermin, would elect them as their Mentor."

Will, listening attentively, subconsciously filed the use of 'vermin' in the back of his mind. "What is his name?" he said.

Philippe's lip curled. "Ezio. Ezio Auditore da Firenze."

* * *

Once the short Ranger and his silly little pony vanished into the ravine below, Philippe summoned Guy Roberts, his second-in-command. A hideous man to begin with, smallpox scars pockmarked his face, and one ear had been sliced off when he was a child. Whereas Philippe's whole family was in the order, the Templars had scooped Guy off the streets, recognizing his ruthless cunning and ambition to please. He served as both a body guard as well as an advisor to Philippe, but he also made a good hitman in a pinch.

"I don't think our woodland fairy has quite aligned himself with us yet," said Philippe, relishing the feel of his native language on his tongue once more. He looked to Guy. "He will need help."

Guy nodded, and Philippe knew he understood on every level. According to their agents in the south, the Liberator's actions had finally drawn the rat from its hole; Ezio Auditore had left Rome. Although they did not know where he was now, it was safe to assume he was coming north, presumably alone. Alone or not, he was a force to be reckoned with, a perfect adversary for the English Rangers.

 _When a child knows not how to swim, throw him in the deep end_ , Philippe thought with a smile.


	10. Milano

**Recap: Ezio and his two companions travel north through Italy, seeking to pick up the trail of the White Liberator. Earlier, Ezio had spilled the beans about the Apple of Eden and his superhuman abilities to Lauro and Pedro, and revealed his secondary objective: discovering the location of the ancient Reliquary.**

* * *

~10~ Milano

Stepping into the boundaries of Milan was akin to crossing a language barrier. As a result of the war, the city had fallen to the control of France, as had the other territories of Northern Italy. Spanish tongues made way for French, with Italian spoken by the commoner. Fortunately, Ezio had learned the foreign language as a young man and he talked his way into the city with little issue.

"You speak French?" Lauro asked.

"There were a couple of French girls in Florence," said Ezio with a knowing smile.

Weeks on the road had left the Assassin trio bone weary and thirsty for something other than leather-infused water. They'd run out of coffee some time ago and were craving some decent food. Even half-decent food would suffice at that moment.

"I know a place," said Ezio. "Good food and drink. Special prices for the likes of us."

"They can accommodate the horses, I trust?" said Pedro, wiping his brow. Like many of the days previous, the afternoon was sweltering. "I know yours is tired from carrying that old bag of bones you call a body."

Ezio shot him a dangerous glare, but the disciple only smiled cheekily in return. He wouldn't have dared utter the insult even two weeks ago, but the bonding that inevitably came with cross-country travel had made away with many formalities and rank barriers.

"Why do we get discounts?" said Lauro, struggling to keep up with his mentor. The streets were getting crowded and the three of them mounted their horses to save room. They weren't the only riders, and could take the risk.

"The owner's undying gratitude. Of course, we pay full price if possible anyway. The gesture is appreciated, but there is no call to take advantage of it."

"What happened?" asked Pedro.

"A gang was extorting money from several establishments in this district. I helped the local Assassins...dissuade them from the lifestyle." He looked Pedro in the eye. "It pays to aid the common man. Even so simple a task as helping him move his goods down the street can earn you a place to hide, a bed at night, important information..."

The inn Ezio had spoken of sat in the shadow of the Saint Mary near Saint Satyrus, a younger Catholic Church. At the square the trio dismounted and walked their horses towards the multi-levelled establishment, which looked well kept and clean. But any lice-infested joint would have sufficed as long as it had beds not made out of dirt and tree roots.

"There are stables just there," said Ezio, pointing. And he wordlessly passed his reins to Pedro.

The disciple pursed his lips and took them, grabbing the same from Lauro. It was said Ezio Auditore always got his revenge, even for petty insults.

"Don't drink the taproom dry before I get there," he mumbled before walking off, leading the weary, sweaty horses away.

Once inside, Lauro sat himself at a table, sighing with relief. Ezio booked rooms, then prodded the young Assassin non-too-gently in the ribs.

"Your horse worked harder than you. Let's go."

"But..." Lauro gazed imploringly up at him, but Ezio was not to be dissuaded. At first he would make it seem that he was having Pedro take care of all three of the animals, but as the trio had bonded with each other on their long journey, so too had they warmed to their horses. It was something that had sneaked up on them.

Lauro sighed again, this time with disappointment, and stood. But Ezio knew it was for show. The buckskin, which the others called Nipper, was a pain at times but he was Lauro's companion all the same.

Pedro knew it, too, and so was taking his time looking after Fool, leaving Nipper and Ezio's bay tied to separate posts next to the gelding's, with buckets of water to slake their thirsts. The eastern wall of the stables was an open arcade, allowing the slight breeze to cool their brows, and there was a well nearby.

Pedro nodded to his companions before turning back to his horse, brushing off weeks of dirt and mud with a coarse brush.

As Ezio neared, Achilles didn't raise his head from the bucket, chugging down the water with gusto. Ezio touched his neck to let him know what he was doing and moved to the left side of the animal. The girth was already loosened, and it only took a few moments for Ezio to remove the saddle and blanket from the bay's back. The short dark hairs were even darker from sweat, and heat radiated off his body like a furnace.

"If people complained as much as you do, the world would be a much quieter place," Ezio murmured. Achilles responded by biting the edge of the bucket, annoyed at the lack of water.

"Alright, I'll get you some more. Let go. Let _go_." Ezio tugged the bucket away. The beast whinnied and tossed his head, stamping impatiently.

 _Make it snappy!_ he seemed to say.

Ezio sighed before turning around. He found Pedro watching him curiously.

"Do they ever talk back?" he asked. Then he grinned.

"Yes, you are very funny, Pedro, there truly is no end to your wit," said Ezio blandly. Then he jumped at a loud _bang!_

"Dammit! Cut that out, you animal!"

Ezio turned towards the other horse and rider. Nipper's head was high but his ears were forward. A few spatters of water clumped the dirt where the bucket should be, the bucket now rolling away down the street. It appeared that the playful stallion had decided to nip and throw it in his demand for more water.

Pedro chuckled as Lauro stomped off to retrieve it and fill it at the well. Then he grabbed the drained pail at Fool's feet and held it out to Ezio. "Do you mind?"

The grand master raised an eyebrow. "Sorry. My hands are full."

"With what?!"

Ezio quickly spotted another bucket and snagged it. "My horse needs a cool-down."

Pedro scoffed and took his bucket himself, missing his teacher's smirk.

With two full buckets, Ezio returned to Achilles, who stretched his neck to reach the water as quickly as possible. He drank so quickly water sloshed around and spilled over the sides. Ezio stood clear and poured the second bucket over the stallion's back. Achilles rumbled, shoulder muscles trembling. A hoof clopped against the ground.

Three more times Ezio doused him, using a wadded cloth to dampen the horse's neck and face, before he was satisfied the horse had cooled sufficiently. Only then did he see to cleaning out rocks in his hooves, brushing him down, combing his mane and tail and checking for any insectile passengers. He put him in a stall with food and more water, then closed the gate. Now he could enjoy some relaxation of his own.

Achilles, mouth full of hay, raised his head to regard him with one large brown eye.

"Good boy," said Ezio before turning away.

"What's his name?"

Ezio looked to Pedro. "What?"

"What's his name?" Pedro nodded to the bay.

"He doesn't have one."

"Of course he doesn't." The disciple smiled and followed Lauro towards the inn, where there was fresh food and drinks ready.

Ezio had drilled into his charges not to get so much as tipsy. At least, not at the same time. _I'm not going to babysit you both_ , he'd told them, and he meant it. They were in a strange land with unfamiliar people, and having been to the city only once before, Ezio was hardly a familiar face himself. The Assassin branch here would know him by name and reputation, the latter having the potential of being fantastically embellished or catastrophically demonized.

 _The burden of fame_ , he thought grumpily.

Lauro and Pedro seemed to have accepted the boundaries, however. They contented themselves with a single share of wine each to have with cheese and bread—something none of them had enjoyed for weeks—before gorging themselves on fresh fruit. Ezio followed suit, although he ate little, the stress of travel having shrunk his stomach to the size of a key lime. He couldn't understand how Pedro could be shovelling back so much.

"If we have to make a quick getaway, you'll get cramps."

"Aw, relax, Ezio! More grapes?"

The food certainly did the disciple good. His face was lit and his demeanour friendly, traits that had dwindled the longer they were on the road. By nightfall he had eaten twice as much as Lauro and probably would have kept going had a yawn not split his face.

Ezio raised an eyebrow. "Thank you for that exceptional view of your molars, but I believe it's time for some beauty sleep."

Pedro stretched lazily. "If I was anymore beautiful, I'd have the face of an angel."

"If angels look like the back ends of donkeys, then yes, I agree."

Lauro was half slouched with his elbow on the table, eyes closed, one side of his face stretched from resting in his hand. A smile tugged the other side of his face. "Ah ha, Pedro looks like the back end of a donkey, haha!"

Pedro frowned, then snagged Lauro's tankard and took a whiff. "You said this was apple juice!"

Lauro's half-smile turned into a half-grin. "There's juice _in_ it."

Pedro sighed roughly and grabbed his fellow apprentice by the shoulders. "Come on, dove. Bed."

"Noooooo."

Ezio watched with mild amusement as Lauro's floppy struggles ended with him being carried away over Pedro's shoulders. At least both of them hadn't sneaked extra drinks.

Once they were out of sight, Ezio leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He, too, would have gone to bed, but it would seem his contact was long in the coming. She was sent for the moment the landlord saw Ezio enter the taproom, but that was hours ago. He would have gone to seek her out himself, but again his unfamiliarity with the city was a hindrance. He was just going to have to be patient.

He waited for another half an hour, then had to go to use the privy. When he returned to the taproom, there was a woman sitting at his table.

Ezio hesitated a beat before moving over to join her.

"I hope you didn't keep me waiting just for a mysterious entrance," he said.

The woman, dressed in simple grey robes, looked up at him with a face creased with stern lines. When she spoke, it was with a voice that had been stretched and scratched by too much pipe weed.

"Where are the wolves when the eagles fall?"

"They await the fires that will purge the earth, by the river that flows ever onward."

"And should the river cease to flow?"

"Then the eagle shall rise no more." Ezio sat at the table with Lady Arabelle, leader of the Milanese Assassin bureau and advisor to the duchess of Milan. He switched to French. "I'm not sure why we bother with such a silly exchange. It sounds like someone made it up on the spot."

"I hope you came here for a good reason, mentor," she said. "The road is long from Rome."

"If you did not think it was going to be a good reason, you would not have come yourself." Ezio gave her his best smile. "Unless it is my charm what brought you to me."

Arabelle raised her chin. "I am old enough to be your mother, Ezio Auditore. Your _charms_ have no effect on me."

"Yet my coming here ignited your curiosity all the same." His face turned grim. "You know what my business is here."

She leaned back in her chair, tilting her head slightly. Black eyes glinted beneath her hood. "It has been a year since the White Liberator made a pass through here. I doubt many remember the names of those he killed."

Ezio leaned forward, as though to keep the distance between them the same. "But you do."

Her fingers thrummed on the table. "Five innocent people died that day. A father and son. A travelling minstrel. A blacksmith and his wife. He mutilated two of them with Templar crosses, yet for all of our careful investigations, we found nothing to tie them to the Templars."

"...You cannot save everyone, Arabelle."

"This is my city. I failed them."

"No. It is I who failed them." Ezio leaned back now, a crease between his eyebrows. "I should have gone after this man myself. He knocked on Rome's door to say hello, but the recruits I sent after him failed to apprehend him. One failed to return at all." The memory burned like a coal in his gut, and he gritted his teeth.

"Cesare Borgia was a much larger threat at the time," said the other Assassin. "No man can be in two places at once."

"Don't try to find excuses for me, Arabelle. Just give me the name of the witness who claimed to have seen White Liberator." It was the reason why he had come to Milan at all. The pigeon message picked up in Florence had lured Ezio here, the only whisper of hope he had for finding his prey.

"I can do that," said Arabelle. "I can also give you the exact location of where he's buried."

Despair fell upon his face. "What happened?"

"He was trampled during a riot in January. An unfortunate event."

Ezio's leather glove squeaked as he clenched his hand. He mumbled a string of curses in Italian. Arabelle switched to the same language.

"All is not lost, Ezio. A careful record was taken with the witness's statement, and includes a sketch of the Liberator's face."

Although he wasn't sure if it would do him any good, Ezio nodded. "Every clue helps. But finding him will be a chore; according to pigeon messages from all over Europe, he's been a busy man."

"Italy was where he began. Italy will be where he finishes," said Arabelle firmly. "Milan's branches reach every boarder. If—when—he comes through the Alps, we shall know."

"Unless he takes to the sea, in which case, he could end up anywhere." The frustration that constantly boiled just under control came dangerously close to exposing itself in Ezio's body language and attitude. It was a flaw that he thought he had smothered in his younger days, when he was brash and reckless and willing to charge headlong into a fight without so much as a moment's preparation.

Arabelle glanced around furtively before leaning forwards and resting her hand on his. It was bare, the bones obvious beneath tough, tanned skin, and speckled with liver spots. "When word had reached me of your promotion to grand master, I must confess I imagined Machiavelli giving a blazing torch to a child." Her head tilted slightly. "Do not look at me like that. You are young to me, and you have been given a burden few have the spirit and strength to withstand. It may not look it at first glance, but the brotherhood has prospered. Switzerland breached old grudges and has been more willing to share intelligence. Spain has supplied many recruits, where before they had kept to themselves. And rumours say Constantinople eagerly awaits your visit, should you wish to do so." Her grasp on his hand tightened. "Unity is our strength. And you aren't hot-headed enough to screw it up."

Ezio had to admit he was feeling a little awkward. She was twenty years his senior and making him feel like the foolish young man he used to be. It was time to change the subject.

He cleared his throat and withdrew his hand. "I...was informed that you have been contending with Assassin gangs milling around."

As though sensing his discomfort, Arabelle permitted a small, tight smile. "Milling is the best word for it. They make noise, wave flags, throw money at poor people – harmless as hens. It's nothing I can't handle."

"Good." Again he cleared his throat. Maybe he needed an ale.

"Where was the last place you heard the Liberator was?"

"...France," said Ezio absentmindedly.

She nodded her head. "I am expecting a courier from the north-western cell by tomorrow. Perhaps he will bring you some news."

"Thank you."

"No need for that." She straightened in her seat. "You chose a good place to stand sentry, mentor. The order we sent out is old, but the cells all know to keep a weather eye out for the perpetrator. Even if they do not catch him, word would reach here within days." She stood and beckoned a bar maid. "This one needs another drink."

The two Assassins nodded to each other, and then Ezio was left alone with his thoughts, and a beer.

~ Ʌ ~

Many miles to the southwest, the same sun had set over a different city. But the travellers did not get a cool inn or soft beds in reward for their hard travel. All but two of their number made camp some distance away from Turin, in a forested patch between vineyards. Weeks of navigating the Alps had drained every reserve of energy they had, and so they were too tired to complain of having to stomach another dry meal and sleep on hard ground.

"They should have been back by now," Gilan muttered, glaring towards Turin.

Halt groaned and sat up. He couldn't sleep either. "There must be a curfew. No leaving or entering the city after dark. They're fine, Gilan."

Horace, who had taken first watch, finished caring for his rifle and set it aside before putting the cleaning rods away. "Say if they weren't fine. What would you do, Halt?"

"What would _I_ do?" Halt turned to the man-at-arms. "Use your head to bash Turin's front door down, that's what I'd do."

"I can see that giving Horace a headache, but not achieving much else," said Gilan.

"It would make me feel better."

Horace sniffed and moved further away from the fire, where it was easier to view the path to the city.

Before Turin had become visible from the Alps, it had been decided that only two of their company would enter. Alyss, because of her position and fluency in both Italian and French, and Will, because even if he got to enjoy the thrill of being the rearguard, he still spoke better French than Gilan.

"So what if he risked himself by following our stalkers and was nearly crushed in a freak landslide?" Gilan had pretended to moan.

Truthfully, all three of them could stand many more weeks out in the woods without losing their minds. As long as they got enough food and found random supplies of coffee beans lying around.

Halt had made sure the latter was on Will's list, even though the young man would sooner leave his own arm behind than forget coffee beans.

"What's this?"

Halt turned his upper body towards Horace, then recoiled. "Don't touch that!"

Horace jumped and dropped the silver cube, constructed of smaller cubes, from Halt's bag. "Sorry! I thought this was my stuff."

Gilan rolled over and snatched up the cube before Halt could. "What is it?"

"I said, don't touch it." The elder Ranger made a grab at it, but Gilan stood, easily keeping it out of reach. "Give it here!"

Gilan frowned. "Just tell us what it is."

"It's none of your business, _that's_ what it is."

"It looks like a puzzle." Gilan tossed it over Halt's head, and Horace caught it. The man-at-arms twisted a row of cubes curiously. Halt knew that each face had an image engraved into it, and the smaller cubes had to be turned to form the images. Only one face had been completed. He couldn't figure out any other side without ruining the solved one.

"Why do you have this, Halt?" asked Horace, tossing it back to Gilan.

The old Ranger fumed, refusing to play their game of monkey in the middle. "Crowley gave it to me."

"But why?"

"Do you think he has any more of an idea of what it is than you do? All he knew was that it came from somewhere other than Britain. I was hoping to find answers here."

"Why keep it a secret?" said Gilan. He tossed the cube up in the air and caught it in one hand, again and again.

"It wasn't a secret. I simply hadn't told you about it." A few well placed blows and Halt had Gilan winded on the ground. He picked up the cube and pocketed it as Gilan gasped like a landed fish.

"Now. Do we touch each others' things?" said Halt, dangerously sweet. His former apprentice shook his head. When Halt looked over his shoulder, Horace did the same, eyes wide. How easily these pups forgot what this old grey fox could do. "Good. Now rest. The moment they return, we're leaving."

* * *

 **Here's a question for you. Is Alyss pronounced like Alyssa without the ending A, or is it pronounced Alice? I always pronounced it the former but that's not a name I've heard anywhere else. I guess Halt isn't either but whatever...**


	11. Decoy

**Recap: Ezio, Lauro and Pedro have made it to Milan, tracking a lead in their hunt for the White Liberator, which turned out to be a dead end.**

 **Thought I'd give the two OCs a time to shine, seeing as I'm no good at inventing characters and need to flesh them out. Plus I'm...having troubles writing about the Ranger team :P**

 **Hope you like m'boys.**

* * *

~11~ Decoy

Alone in his room, Pedro finished washing the oil and loose stubble from his face into the water basin before checking himself once more in the glass, lead-gilt hand mirror that had once belonged to his father. He nodded with satisfaction. He always felt refreshed after a shave. He put the razor, mirror and shaving oil back into his bag of personal affects before pulling out a comb and running it through his hair, even though he had done so three times that morning already.

So he liked a bit of grooming. There were worse habits.

After replacing the comb, Pedro pulled on a shirt, relishing the feel of cleanliness after weeks of sweat-encrusted cotton. Then he donned his robes and boots, buckled his belt tight, and armed himself with an English hand-and-a-half sword, throwing knives, a brace of pistols, and, of course, his wrist blade.

He slipped the latter on last, tightening the buckles until it was comfortable. He clenched and relaxed his left hand, turning his wrist before engaging the blade. It shot out of its hidden sheath before darting back inside, a viper in the grass. After putting Lauro to bed the night before, he'd removed the blade, cleaned it, then replaced it, checking again and again to ensure all was as it should be. Although the full technology of how it worked was beyond him, he would know if anything was amiss just by the sound.

His, and Lauro's, were simple designs, the type that had been used by Assassins for centuries. Earlier models required the removal of the left ring finger in order to work, which also ensured the dedication of whoever wore it. Only those of true intent would join the brotherhood. Now, the finger was branded.

Pedro looked at his hand. It was not branded. He had not the skills nor the experience to be accepted as a full-fledged Assassin. Lauro, too, was a mere recruit, more likely to die or quit before seeing his next decade. A rare few gained the higher ranks in their younger days, Ezio being one of them. Like many, Pedro saw the grand master as nothing short of a hero, a harbinger of hope, a warrior for God. They were childish thoughts, perhaps, as he was a man, just like those he led. But becoming Mentor when he still had colour in his hair gave him much respect, and he deserved it.

Pedro looked at his wrist blade again, then at his bare right forearm. As a Master Assassin, not only did Ezio have two wrist blades, but one of them was extra special, courtesy of artist and inventor, Leonardo of Vinci. Its blade was hollow and could be injected with a toxin, allowing him to poison an enemy with a mere prick and escape before anyone knew anything was wrong. In addition, a tiny pistol had been installed into the vambrace, so he needed only to aim with the back of his wrist and hit the trigger with his other hand.

Handy additions, to be sure, and yet no underling was ever permitted to use them. But for some reason, that made sense to Pedro. They did not join the brotherhood to kill. Most didn't anyway.

A low thud startled Pedro from his thoughts, and he whirled towards the door. Then he relaxed, smirking. Lauro was up. Or at least awake.

Making a last sweep of the inn room, Pedro swung his bag over his shoulder and opened the door. He knocked on the one across the hall, and heard a few mumbled threats from the other side. Grinning, Pedro opened it to near darkness.

"Rise and shine!"

"Go _'_ _waaaay_." Lauro was in a heap on the floor beside his bed, bare-chested, tangled in the sheets. His expression revealed the presence of the hangover.

"You must be the lightest of lightweights I know," said Pedro cheerfully, setting his bag down and entering without permission. He moved towards the window.

"No, don't—"

Pedro threw open the shutters, and the morning sun blazed through in all its glory. Lauro wailed and rolled under the bed.

"I hate you."

"You love me." Pedro knelt in order to see him. "Come give us a hug!"

"Shhhh." Lauro waved a floppy arm at him, squinting in pain. "It's quiet time."

"IS IT, REALLY?"

Lauro moaned and tried to roll further under the bed. Unfortunately for him, it was only a couple feet broader than his shoulders and Pedro easily tugged him back out.

"Time for breakfast! How about some greasy pork sausages and pickled eggs?"

Lauro's face turned from white to green in record time, and how he managed to keep his guts down was a spectacular feat in of itself. Chuckling, Pedro smacked his bare chest non-too-gently.

"Wash up. I'll have coffee made for you."

"That won't make us even," Lauro growled.

"You can only blame yourself, dove." He nudged his bag of affects with his foot. "Here. Use my razor."

"Maybe I'll use it on more than my face."

"Maybe I'll put something _special_ in your coffee."

Lauro grumbled and Pedro knew he had him beat. Smiling, he went downstairs, stomach rumbling in anticipation of a good, hot meal.

There were a few early risers in the taproom, snarfing down breakfast before heading off to work. The delightful smells of brewing coffee, fresh bread and sizzling bacon had Pedro drifting across the room, sniffing. Out of habit he was still fully aware of his surroundings. From the moment he'd gotten off the stairs he knew how many people there were, what they were eating and what kind of mood they were in. Ezio was not among them, so either he was taking a late morning or had left at an ungodly hour.

The landlord's wife, a plump woman with rosy cheeks, smiled in recognition as Pedro approached.

"Good morning, young man. I trust you slept well?"

Pedro couldn't help but smile in return. "Very well, mother, thank you."

He ordered enough breakfast for both himself and Lauro before choosing a table near the back of the taproom, where he could casually watch the other patrons. By the time the food was brought over, Lauro was dragging his feet across the room, scowling, clothes rumpled and a mini thunder cloud over his head.

" _Oooh_ , look at the state of you!" The landlord's wife tutted and grabbed Lauro's sleeve, guiding him to a chair across from Pedro. "Goodness, boy, you look like you've never been drunk before."

Lauro mumbled something and reached for an apple, but she swatted his hand.

"Eggs! Eggs and coffee is what you get." She plunked a plate of fried eggs and buttered bread in front of him, then poured him a large mug of brew. He blinked at the speed in which she moved, and Pedro chuckled.

"A virgin _and_ a teetotaller. All the ladies want him."

"At least I want the ladies back." Lauro grinned for the first time that morning, even after Pedro kicked him under the table.

The Assassin disciples finished their breakfast in silence, inwardly pleased by the attention the landlord's wife gave them, making sure they had enough to eat and drink. An hour passed and Ezio had yet to show his face, so Pedro assumed he was already gone.

"So what happens now?" asked Lauro, stretching lazily. He looked better, colour having returned to his cheeks.

Pedro shrugged. "Look around, I suppose."

The younger man poured himself a third cup of coffee, adding a dash of cream. "We can be a little more productive, you know."

"Oh?"

Lauro took a sip and nodded, swallowing before saying. "Yes. Like getting rid of that gut." He flicked a finger across the table. Pedro snorted in mock outrage.

"I could outrun you any time with any gut."

"Strange, I've never seen you run. Because you always fall behind."

"You have a delicate self-esteem. I have to let you win or you cry yourself to sleep."

"I have been insulted." Lauro stood and slapped a glove down on the table. "I challenge you to a race, sir."

"I accept, sir." Pedro stood as well, over a head taller than the other man. "Name the time and place."

"I shall. Just let me finish..." He downed the rest of his coffee, cringing at the heat but nodding appreciatively. "That's good. Now, sir, to the streets."

The pair marched outside, then into an alley before climbing onto the roof of the shop beside the inn, where they had a better vantage point.

Lauro put a hand up to block the sun and panned the skyline. He pointed at the Church of Saint George, to the southwest. "There."

"Very well. Three, two, one—"

They shot off, two arrows from two bows, feet flying over ochre tiles and sailing across the gaps of narrow streets below. Both knew their limits and so they chose a pace that suited them. Which of course was slower than normal, as they had both eaten a bit more than their fill and it was like running with a sack of bricks around their waists.

Pedro kept up with Lauro most of the way, his longer strides making up for the speed he simply could not retain for long. But he could feel his insides start to tighten and cramp, and he fell behind.

"So slow!" Lauro sang over his shoulder. The church was a hundred metres away.

"Just you wait!" _I really shouldn't have had third helpings_ , he thought, cringing.

A few paces ahead, Lauro dropped down over the edge of the last building before the square, using the façade to scale down easily. Pedro followed suit, not as nimbly but just as securely, and then there was the final dash across open space.

"My grandmother was faster even after they buried her!"

"All the more reason for her to feel ashamed of her grandson!" Pedro put on a sudden burst of speed, not towards the church, but towards Lauro.

"Whoa!" The smaller man was unprepared for the full body slam mere feet before the front door of the church. He hit the ground, Pedro's arms wrapped around him, winded.

"You sack of niblets!"

"Whoops!" Pedro untangled himself, stood, and sauntered over to the wooden door before putting a hand to it and leaning casually. "My my, you look a state."

"Not fair!" Lauro cried, getting to his feet, gasping. "You cheated."

Pedro gave him a crocodile grin. "You didn't specify the rules, dove."

Lauro dusted off his robes irritably, but Pedro knew it was just for show. He'd get over it.

"You deserve that cramp," said Lauro. He smirked as Pedro grimaced.

"Probably."

People were watching them strangely. Pedro tipped his chin at them.

"Let's go," Lauro mumbled.

They left the square and returned to the rooftops as the morning hustle and bustle grew swollen in the streets. They made a pass at the inn, but Ezio had not returned, so they took to exploring Milan, talking with people, crossing paths with other Assassins. They seemed a little reserved, recognizing the pair as strangers by their dialect. But they shared the latest news and welcomed gossip from the south. The disciples did not mention their company nor their quarry, as Ezio hadn't permitted them to go blabbing ("Although he didn't tell us we _couldn't_ blab," Lauro had pointed out), but somehow the White Liberator came up more than once, along with rumours of the Mentor's presence in the city.

"If anyone can catch him, it would be Ezio Auditore," was the general mood, but there were also skeptics, for both Ezio's abilities and the Liberator's existence, let alone presence.

By noon, the young men were ready to seek shelter from the sweltering Milan sun. Even the breeze drifting its way over the rooftops did little to relieve the heat trapped beneath their hoods.

"There. Looks like someone selling drinks." Pedro pointed across the square from the roof of a house. Wiping his brow, Lauro squinted to see the vendor.

"Got any money?"

Pedro checked his coin pouch. "A little."

"Good. You're buying." He shot him a grin before turning towards an alley, where there was an easy way off the roof.

"Smart ass." Pedro followed, only to freeze, grabbing Lauro's shoulder to stop him as well.

"Are you drunk again?!" a voice demanded from the alley below. The Assassins peered down curiously, seeing four men in similar clothes. One, the shouter, was flanked by two brutes, and the fourth was barely holding himself up against a door, cowering.

"I don't mind a man taking a swig to clear his head," the bird-faced shouter continued. "But I will not permit you to get stumble-ass drunk _at this guard post!_ "

"Jackals," Lauro hissed, and Pedro nodded. The Jackals were a gang that ran about the city, causing mischief. They were little more than glorified thieves and thugs, according to the local Assassins, but they weren't doing enough harm to warrant rooting them out completely.

At least they were easy to spot.

The leader put his face into that of the drunkard's, grabbing his collar and shaking him. "I was clear, wasn't I? I was _clear_ as mornin' _piss_ that you'd better shape up, or I'll _tan_ you, _like—a—cow!_ " He threw the man down the alley with a roar, and he had not the coordination to catch himself before getting a face-full of mud. But then he was up and running, no doubt to find somewhere to sober up.

The leader turned to one of his henchmen. "You! Stand guard until the next shift arrives." He continued up the alley, away from the square, his other henchman following.

Lauro and Pedro retreated from the edge of the roof. Lauro was grinning.

"I bet he has the key to that door down there."

Pedro shrugged. "Who could you wager against? My money's on that too. The problem is, how are we to know if it's worth the risk?"

"Who cares? There might be something interesting down there. And if not, we can at least appreciate imagining his face when he realizes the key is gone."

Pedro snorted. "Then lead on."

Like ghosts, the Assassin disciples tailed the Jackals for several blocks, waiting for an opportunity to get close. Crowds worked the best, but the men kept to alleys and less busy streets. There was no way they would be able to get close to him without the bodyguard noticing. Perhaps that was the intention. They knew the ways of the Assassins well enough to be leery, although not so leery as to think they could be killed at any moment.

"We need a distraction," Lauro muttered. They had abandoned the roofs in favour of the ground, where it was less likely their shadows would be spotted under the descending sun.

Pedro turned his eyes towards raised voices down the street. Listening past the sounds of the city, he was able to discern a few words. He smiled.

"I think I have one."

* * *

"Liberty! Freedom! It is our right as citizens of Milan. As human beings!" Cornelio, book binder and part-time scribe, was feeling the strain his declarations put on his throat, and every passing minute made him more and more coarse. But he would shout until the city listened.

"I have seen what it means to be free, my friends. Nothing can make you more happy than casting off your chains, stepping from your manacles and spreading your wings! Listen not to what the authorities tell you, but to what your heart says. Think for yourselves, friends. Think! You may take comfort in the leadership of your faith or the council, but you mustn't allow loyalty to blind you to the truth!"

Cornelio paused. He was starting to sound blasphemous again. And if that didn't put him in jail, bringing up Assassins directly most certainly would. One slip of the tongue was all it took.

His break invited one of his fellows to take up the cry, and he willingly allowed her, picking up a flask and downing a swig. It burned his raw throat.

 _I won't be able to talk by year's end_ , he thought balefully, then shook off the disheartening attitude. Assassins risked their lives every day to give people freedom, to keep Templar shackles from falling about their wrists. If all Cornelio could do was rally others to his cause, to show them the Assassins' work, that was better than making no effort at all.

 _Crack!_

Cornelio spun around so fast he nearly toppled off the crate he used as a podium. People were scattering from a point in the middle of the street, a stream of pungent smoke drifting up from the gap. The book-binder stepped off the crate and pushed himself through the crowd, his three companions following.

"What's going on? What's that smoke?" He broke through the ring of citizens and stared at the bits of shrapnel that were the remains of a cherry bomb lying on the flagstones. "Who threw that?"

"Get out of my way. Get out of my way or I'll break your bloody legs!" Someone was shoving their way through the crowd across from Cornelio, who felt his hackles rise at the sight of him.

"Gastone Giordano."

The bird-faced Jackal pushed a youth sprawling in order to get out of the press of people, a henchman on his tail. They stared at the shrapnel as well, before Gastone looked up and spotted Cornelio.

"You! What the hell are you doing?"

"I didn't do this," Cornelio barked coarsely. He resisted the urge to clear his throat. "I'll bet it was one of your fellow mutts; lit it without knowing what it would do."

"I aught to wring your scrawny neck, boy!"

"You're the scum of the earth, Gastone! You and all your swine."

Gastone drew a sword, eliciting gasps and short cries from the people. Heart pounding, Cornelio pulled out a knife. Its blade was no longer than his finger but it could cut leather like lard. Gastone scoffed at it.

"Is that all you can handle, street rat? A little pig-sticker? Ah ha ha ha!"

Cornelio put on the meanest face he could and took a step forward, pretending not to feel fear when Gastone's bodyguard also drew a sword and stepped before his leader. That man was much bigger, and less likely to be a coward.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! Please, no violence."

Eyes whipped around. A shadow soared over their heads and a man in white fell from above, landing in a crouch right in the middle of the battlefield. Exclamations of shock mumbled into silence as the man straightened and turned to look between Cornelio and Gastone.

"Now, what is the problem?" he said calmly, making no move to arm himself at the sight of naked blades.

Cornelio could barely contain his excitement. An Assassin! A real Assassin!

"Disturbing of the peace, my l-lord!" he stuttered, pointing the knife towards Gastone. Then he realized how threatening he must look to the Assassin and lowered it. "A cherry bomb, your greatness."

The man cocked his head, then looked down at the shrapnel. He nudged it with his toe. "And you believe this fine gent here threw it?"

"Complete nonsense!" Gastone snapped. "I did no such thing. It was _this_ little wank stain." He brandished his sword at Cornelio, who puffed out his chest, aiming to look brave in front of one of his heroes.

"Lies! We are but peaceful citizens. You, on the other hand, are a rabble of thieves, thugs, and lowlifes!"

Gastone let forth a spew of insults and curses, but a flash of white behind him had caught Cornelio's attention. It was there and then it was gone, a fish nosing the surface before diving back into the depths. Gastone didn't notice a thing.

"I think it is safe to assume neither of you threw it," said the Assassin at last, silencing Gastone's rant with calmness. "It might have been one of your friends," he nodded to Cornelio, "or it might have been a Jackal. Or it might have been a child up to mischief." He smiled. "Or yet another party might be at fault, and they have just succeeded in distracting us all."

Shifty eyes all around. People began to pat themselves down, checking for missing coin purses or goods. Gastone sneered. Cornelio noticed he never checked _his_ pockets.

"This isn't over," Gastone growled, brandishing his sword at Cornelio again. Forgoing insults, the book-binder instead smiled and wiggled his fingers in farewell. Gastone wouldn't attack him, even with backup, with the Assassin there. Although he was going to have to watch himself on the way home tonight...

Gastone turned and began to push through the masses, his fellow Jackal tailing like a dog. As the crowd began to disperse, Cornelio almost thanked the Assassin for intervening. But the man turned to him, scanning him up and down as though assessing him. Then he winked, and Cornelio blushed, speechless as the Assassin turned and melted into the crowd.

* * *

"Did you get it?"

"Of course I got it!" Lauro waved Gastone's key in Pedro's face, making him sway his head back. "And he didn't feel a thing."

"Well done, I guess." Pedro shrugged.

Lauro rolled his eyes. "You couldn't have done it any better."

"I would have been faster."

"Bull poop. You would have walked right into him like the great blundering ox that you are."

Pedro grinned at him, but Lauro merely sniffed and walked on ahead. "Just try and keep up."

Having made note of where the guarded door was, the pair of disciples soon stood but metres away, just around the corner. The shift had changed, and a sober Jackal now slumped against the door, pretending to be checking his nails.

"Do you think we should find Ezio?" Pedro hissed. Lauro shook his head.

"No time. That Gastone man might return here once he realizes the key is gone. I say we go in, take a look around, and if it's worth Mentor's time, _then_ we find him."

Pedro paused, chewing his cheek, and nodded tightly. "Let's go."

* * *

It was by fortune alone that Ezio didn't topple out of the bell tower and plunge hundreds of feet to the flagstones below. The images that continued to flash before his eyes prevented him from witnessing his near demise even as his legs buckled and he slumped against a pillar, twitching, breath hitching.

He was watching them from the eyes of a sparrow – two figures in white hoods, chasing each other across the rooftops. Suddenly they were in an alleyway, disappearing down a flight of stairs. He saw them then from the view of a rat, watched them rummage through a room stuffed with valuables. One man pushed open the lid of a chest and pulled out an ebony box, and tried to open it. Ezio could see the familiar symbols emblazoned over each face of the box. A container of a precursor artifact.

And then there were more men. Strangers. Enemies. They tried to shoot the Assassins, but the pair made a run for it, only for one to be struck with a club before he reached the stairs. The other man didn't notice and escaped.

Ezio recognized the fallen man just as the clang of a bell shattered the vision. He pressed his hands to his ears, curling in on himself, feeling as though he'd been standing inside the bell when Thor smashed it with his mighty hammer. As the ringing subsided, he opened his eyes to see the bell, but feet away, still and silent. It hadn't been rung at all.

Nausea joined the sound-induced tension that bound his chest. Ezio sat up and rubbed his temples. He didn't let himself vomit.

It was the Apple of Eden. Giving him visions in the day now, whether he wanted to see them or not. And he knew it was the ebony box it had wanted him to see. He didn't care about the box. One of his charges was in trouble. Or rather, was going to be.

"Pedro."

He got up, swaying, and set a hand against the bell to steady himself. It felt cool. He wanted to rest his brow against it and close his eyes and forget the world for a few minutes. But he couldn't.

Raising his arm, he stretched it back slowly, drawing his pectoral tighter and tighter until the dull pain became searing. The old bullet wound slapped him back to reality, and his mind became clear.

The wind tried to pluck him from the side of the octagonal bell tower of San Gottardo, but he was sure-footed and strong-handed, and anything less than God's flicking finger could not make him fall. He dropped the last twelve feet and set off running. Ezio's breath was even and deep, his body accustomed to the combination of rigorous activity and anxious trepidation, and it took him back to the inn without issue. There, he waited for the inevitable.

* * *

 **The "Are you drunk again?!" spiel was from Assassin's Creed: Unity. Just borrowing it because it made me smile.**


	12. Infiltration

**By the way, Ezio is pronounced Et-zio (like how there's a light T sound in pizza), not Eat-zio or E-zee-o. Heard someone mispronounce it recently and it... Just... No.**

 **Don't worry, there is a Ranger section in this chapter. Finally. Not happy with it, but then, when am I ever.**

* * *

 **Recap: Lauro and Pedro take matters into their own hands in Milan when they find a possible gang hideout and stole the key from their leader in order to get inside. Ezio witnessed a potential future via the Apple of Eden concerning the pair.**

 **Halt and company have made it through the Alps, still seeking the White Liberator, but the trail has gone cold near Turin.**

* * *

~12~ Infiltration

Two Assassins strode around the corner, into the alley. The guard looked up. Shock was quickly composed into disinterest. After all, he wasn't guarding anything. Really. The pair watched him in turn, as what would be natural. Lauro nodded in greeting, and the Jackal tipped his brow with a finger, relaxing as the Assassins went past. That was what they were waiting for.

The Jackal had no time to shout in warning before Pedro spun and lunged, clamping a hand over his mouth and pinching his nose shut. The man struggled but was no match, and soon he was out cold. Pedro bound and gagged him before tucking him between piles of refuse and joining Lauro at the door. The smaller Assassin fished out Gastone's key. It fit the lock perfectly. Mouth dry, he turned it.

The hinges were well oiled and the door swung open silently. Steps led down into darkness, and there was a faint stench of old water and waste. A route to the sewers, perhaps, or a cistern. The disciples stared, then turned to each other.

"Ladies first," said Lauro.

Pedro rolled his eyes but led the way. Senses alert, Lauro followed. The steps were stone and so did not creak, but the roof was low, their visibility to the space beyond limited; anyone there would see their feet before the Assassins stepped onto level ground. But no alarms were raised, and once they reached the bottom, they stepped out of the light cast down from the open door. A set of lanterns stood on a nearby table, and Lauro grabbed one, lighting with his tinderbox. Pedro went back up to close the door, pulling the key out of the lock as he did so, before accepting another lantern, which he lifted high.

It was a small, low room, perhaps once used as a food cellar. Floor to ceiling shelves made aisles from back to front, dark and loaded with various items: vases, drawing sets, statuettes, books, goblets and platters, candlesticks, rolls of parchment, trinkets and baubles, tools, weapons, jewellery boxes, paintings, silverware, taxidermy, tapestries, musical instruments...

"What is this?" Pedro whispered, inspecting a glass rose. "Some kind of hoard?"

Lauro shrugged, scanning the spines of several books. Some weren't Italian, and looked to be decades, if not centuries, old. "If it is, it isn't well kept." He ran a finger over a shelf, and it came off coated in dust. He turned away, holding back a sneeze.

"Wait..." On the other side of a shelf, Pedro had stopped. Lauro peered through the gap between a set of chalices at Pedro's back.

"What?"

"...This is a Rafael."

"A what?"

"Rafael Sanzio. A painter." He picked up a small portrait of a man and turned to Lauro, showing him. "I think this is one of his."

"Wow. So what?"

"It was in this crate, well protected. But why buy a painting only to keep it down in this pit?"

"They didn't. They _stole_ it only to keep it down in this pit."

"My thoughts exactly."

Lauro continued down the aisle, until he reached the far wall. Here the pungent smell was strongest. "Another door." He tried the knob. "Locked." He held his hand out behind him, and a few seconds later there was a clink as the key hit the floor. Lauro sucked his teeth in mock exasperation and knelt to pick it up. "Why I keep you around is beyond me."

Pedro made kissy noises at him which Lauro ignored, testing the lock. The key didn't fit.

"Hmph." He turned away, the light of his lantern casting an odd shadow in the corner. Cocking his head, he moved closer, to discover a sheet thrown over a chest. He tugged it off, kneeling to open the lid.

"...Pedro."

The older man joined him, blinking at the sight of white robes in the chest.

"Are those...?"

"Yes." Lauro pulled out a set. They were for a low-ranking Assassin, simple, with minimal armour. Designed for a messenger. "But why—?" He turned them around, and flinched at the torn holes in the back, stained with blood. This Assassin had been shot from behind.

Pedro cursed. "They aren't just thieves and thugs. They're murderers."

"...We don't know if the Jackals are responsible. They might have found these..." But why would they keep them? Especially if they weren't responsible. Lauro dug further into the chest, only to find more sets of bloodied robes, all of the rank of disciple or lower, as well as a few wrist blades. They were damaged, as though someone had busted them apart to try and figure out how they worked. Lauro's hands were shaking as he continued to rummage through.

There was something at the bottom. A small ebony box etched with unfamiliar characters. The moment he touched it, he felt a surge of energy flow through him, hairs standing on the back of his neck, goosebumps rippling over his arms. He recoiled.

"What in hell's fire?"

The sensation was familiar. It was the same as when Ezio almost showed them the Apple of Eden weeks ago. Its mere presence was enough to send Lauro's senses reeling.

He pulled the box out.

"We need to show this to Mentor." Pedro's face was dark with anger. Lauro nodded and set the box on the floor, reaching inside the chest to grab a wrist blade. It would be evidence enough for now; they couldn't take the whole chest with them.

But then he paused. Standing, he put his ear to the locked door, then whirled to Pedro, eyes big.

"Hide!"

The disciples moved to opposite sides of the room and snuffed their lanterns. Lauro tucked himself in the little cave between a large, framed painting and the wall. There were a few clinks and a creak as Pedro hid himself in an armoire. The silence endured until there was a click, the sound of the door unlocking.

When it was pushed open, the stench intensified. Five men emerged, the leader holding a torch. The others carried two large chests between them, which they set down and opened before beginning to fill them with items, wrapping some in linen to protect them. None of them noticed the open chest in the corner, but Lauro did. And his guts churned at the sight of it.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

He inched forward a little bit, trying to keep the men in view. They spoke little, but when they did, it was in Spanish. Lauro knew just enough. They were discussing the items, deciding whether to take them now or later.

 _Take them where?_ he wondered. None of these things belonged to the Spaniards, but were they the thieves or the smugglers? Once Milan fell under the control of the French, all of her treasures belonged to France as well. Sometimes, those treasures went missing. There were probably cells like this all over the city, and the Assassins who caught on...

Lauro swallowed and wriggled back into the gap between the wall and painting. With any luck, the men would fill the chests and go without taking a look at everything. He and Pedro would then leave, find their mentor, and try to pick the lock of the door leading further into the earth. Even if they were to simply discover where everything was going, at least they would have found a lead for the local Assassins to follow. It might even be the excuse they needed to disband the Jackal gang.

But his hopes were for nought. Suddenly, the door at the top of the stairs burst open, and the angry voice of Gastone preceded his coming. Suddenly the Jackal was there, a whirlwind of rage and curses and spittle.

"What the blazes is this? Why was that door unlocked? Who attacked the guard?"

Lauro inched even further into the gap, stomach twisting.

A Spaniard spoke to Gastone. "You are the only one with a key, señor."

"And yet I have not used it today." The sounds of patting, Gastone clearly seeking the key that was supposed to be on his person. Then a stunned silence.

"But...Where...?"

The Spaniard's smirk was audible. "Problem, señor?"

"It was that Assassin! The one in the piazza!"

Restless mutterings from the smugglers, a few drawn knives.

"I was unaware you were allowing them to come and go as they please," toned the lead Spaniard.

Lauro moved yet again. His elbow pushed against the painting, making it shift along the floor. He paled at the tangible silence that followed.

"...Go?" said Gastone. "They're still here."

Pedro broke cover first. He burst out of the armoire and slammed into the nearest smuggler, sending him flying into a hat stand.

"Seize him!" Gastone drew his sword, but the Spaniards were already swarming the young Assassin, trying to corner him.

"You can try!" His fists flew, smashing noses and knocking out teeth. But he was outnumbered, and would not hold out forever.

Lauro emerged from his cave. He could have used the opportunity to escape, to get help. But doing so would result in his friend's death. Instead, he picked up a painting. The frame was thick and heavy, and he spun, hurling it like a giant discus, right at the Spaniards' backs.

"Oof!"

Two were knocked sprawling, and Pedro jumped over them, coming to stand with his kin.

"Shoot them!" Gastone screamed.

As pistols emerged from Spaniard belts, so did a smoke bomb from an Italian one. Lauro raised it over his head.

"Fly, Pedro!"

He smashed it on the ground. Elements mixed, reacted, and spewed a cloud of smoke with a _whoosh!_ Shots rang out, but the two Assassins were gone. Lauro escaped the smoke cloud first. He raced up the stairs, not pausing to close the door, and fled the alleyway. Trusting Pedro to be on his tail, he didn't slow until he reached thicker crowds, where he blended in, another fish in the stream.

"That was close," he muttered. A woman looked at him oddly, but he only smiled, then turned to Pedro. Or to where Pedro was supposed to be.

"...Pedro? Pedro!"

* * *

"Now you've done it," Gastone snarled.

"It was you who lost the key, señor," Sebastian Dominique retorted back. He kicked the wounded Assassin in the side, making him groan. Blood matted hair to the side of his head. "I must go. The rest will have to be moved later."

"There won't be anything to move after the other Assassin alerts his friends." Gastone pointed at the chest in the corner, open to expose the robes and wrist blades. "They saw this. You're going to have to cut your losses and make for Vercelli tonight."

The Spaniard and Jackal looked around at the hoard. There was still much of value here, and the only way the Assassins could reach it was through the door leading to the alley. Unless they navigated the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the city, which was entirely possible.

"Barricade the door," said Sebastian. "We will have everything out of this room by tonight."

Gastone wasn't listening. Everything was ruined. He'd never intended things to go so far. But these Assassins were so damn nosy...And this time, one got away.

He knelt and rolled his prisoner over. He recognized him from the confrontation with the book-binder, Cornelius. The one who had diffused the situation he no doubt had ignited to begin with.

"Better keep this one alive," said Sebastian. "I know someone who would pay handsomely for him."

"A fate worse than death, no doubt." Which, Gastone decided, sounded just fine to him. He stood. "Get all of your men down here, then. It's going to take every last favour I've earned to get everything out of Milan by sundown."

* * *

Although it was like chewing stone, Ezio waited at the inn. It was almost an hour before Lauro returned. Alone. As the Apple predicted.

Lauro's breath was ragged, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, but his training kept him impassive and dry-eyed.

"Mentor, something happened—"

"I know. Take me there."

~ Ʌ ~

Turin had been a waste of time.

While a spectacular city to visit, Will and Alyss had found no indication the White Liberator had passed through. If he had, he hadn't killed anyone, not with his usual modus operandi of gouging the Templar cross into their corpses.

Now several miles east of the Italian city, the company of Englishmen stopped in a village, noses drawn to the scent of fresh-baked bread and roasting ham. The Rangers had shed their cloaks to dissuade the spread of a describable rumour – all kinds of strangers would be roaming these occupied lands, but none of them would have green and grey mottled cloaks.

"This is the largest inn for miles around," Alyss translated from a friendly farmer, gesturing at the only double-story building in sight. "He says it has the best _grappa_ on this side of _Firenze_."

"It would be a metropolis for gossip," said Halt. "If any strange murders have happened over the past few days, we would hear of it there."

"As long as it has that roasting ham, I will stay there until I hear that gossip," said Horace, already leading Kicker towards the inn.

Aside from the farmer, there was a solemn aloofness enveloping the village. The Brits' pale skin brought many a wary or dirty look, and those who met their eyes quickly averted them. A few children tried to run up to pet the horses' rumps as they went by, only to be scolded by any adult brave enough to raise their voice.

Will tucked his chin down, self-conscious. "This wasn't nearly as awkward in the city."

"Land-workers always get hit the hardest in war," said Halt, falling back to walk beside him. "I'm sure they saw enough pale-faces to start new stories of horror to keep their children behaved."

"Just keep smiling," said Gilan, behind them both. "If we pay up front and be merry, they'll warm up to us."

As they stepped up to the inn, Alyss held back. "I have an idea." She passed the reigns of her horse to Will and dug around her saddlebags. "I'll see you in there." She trotted off, a bundle under her arm, as the other four tied the horses in the shade. Will opened the door for the others, watching where his beloved had disappeared. Instead of her, he spotted a flash of white disappear around the corner.

"Will?"

He turned to see Horace looking at him with a level of concern.

"...It's probably nothing," said Will, moving to follow the others in. But Horace hadn't moved.

"What's nothing?"

"Nothing's nothing. Come on, I'm starving."

The taproom was surprisingly clean, with sawdust shifting underfoot as the party stepped over the threshold. Windows were open to allow a cross breeze and the fire pit was indeed responsible for the delicious scent of roasting pig meat. The room was nearly full, but only a few turned their heads to acknowledge the newcomers.

A sweet Italian girl led them to their seats, and spoke English well enough to take their drink orders and offer food.

The trio of Rangers and man-at-arms settled, grateful for the shelter from the merciless Italian sun, which was only intensifying with the apex of summer fast approaching.

"Imagine working all day in this heat," Horace groaned, tugging at his collar. His face, like those of the others, glistened with sweat, but without the protection of a hood it had reddened. He'd long taken off his armour, to avoid drawing too much attention. He would have cooked like a snail in its own shell had he been forced to wear it across the countryside.

He glanced around at the other sweaty patrons. "I suppose that's why they're all here."

"You alright, Will?" said Gilan.

The youngest Ranger looked away from the door. "I just feel like we should keep moving."

"Where?" said Halt. He, above all, looked like he needed rest the most. "We have no leads. Rumours are better than shooting arrows out into the dark. We don't know who might shoot back, in these strange lands."

"More Assassins," Gilan mumbled, fingernail following a gouge in the table. "Or Spaniards."

"Now keep your ears open, Will, and tell us of anything interesting."

Will tried, but his Italian wasn't as good as Alyss'. He caught word of some good poaching grounds, fishing spots, of a trading caravan being late, the continued harassment of Spanish and French soldiers...

A woman pushed open the front door and paused, looking around the taproom. Will's eyes almost skimmed past her when he suddenly froze, meeting her gaze. She smiled and tipped her chin, then patted the scarves wrapped around her head, hiding her hair. She wore the simple country dress of a milkmaid, modest without subjecting her to unbearable heat, and her skin matched that of the locals.

"Whoa. I almost didn't recognize her," Horace mumbled.

"She looks amazing," Gilan breathed.

"Yes, she does." Will watched her make her way across the room, to the landlord, before forcing himself to turn away. He didn't want to break Alyss' cover.

"What's she doing?"

"Speaking with the landlord," said Gilan, sitting opposite from Will and thus able to watch her without being obvious about it. "His lady's coming by...Giving her an apron... It looks like Alyss is getting a job."

"She'll be able to get a whiff of every conversation at every table," said Halt. "I told you she'd be handy."

"You said you didn't want her coming because this was going to be dangerous," said Horace tactlessly, earning himself a fiery glare.

"She's got a tray of drinks. I suppose they appreciate the help," Gilan updated Will.

"Whatever works," Will responded, squirming in his seat. Hopefully no one decides they could get more than just drinks from his fiancée. He'd hate to have to break a few skulls on this lovely afternoon.

* * *

Alyss was fully aware of the dangers. Well, danger might be too strong a word, at least this time of the day, but she knew better than to keep her butt in one place for long. She was "working" for tips but she'd rather be broke than someone's squeeze toy.

She did her best to avoid speaking. Her makeup was flawless and her Italian nearly so, but she would have an accent the locals might not like. She would circle her prey, waiting for them to be in deep conversation before swooping in, taking empty tankards and replacing them with full, absorbing every word she could before being forced to move away again. Unfortunately, nothing related to their quarry was uttered.

As the heat of the day drew to a close, most of the patrons left to return to work, but sometimes fresh faces wandered in and she would be renewed with hope. She would smile and try to get there before the other barmaids, but the newcomers always turned out to be smiths or tanners or cobblers, taking a late lunch or early supper. None of them had anything interesting to say.

* * *

"We can't stay here much longer," Gilan mumbled. "We don't want anyone getting to know our faces. Especially the keepers."

Horace leaned forwards, pushing away his empty plate. "What do we do now?"

"We keep moving," said Halt. "And we look for leads elsewhere. Will?"

The younger man was looking over his shoulder, but he casually turned back around. "You go. I will stay a bit longer and catch up later."

The others didn't put up a fuss, chairs scrapping along the floor as they stood. Will got up only to take Horace's seat, which was before a window. The back light would blur his face to anyone looking his way. From there, he watched Alyss.

She was behind the counter, refilling mugs, when a traveller came in. Will knew he was a traveller because he looked like how he felt. Weary, dusty, but determined to press on. The man wove between the tables, ignoring the other patrons and making straight for the landlord. Will could almost feel the stress Alyss' ears would be enduring to catch their conversation.

It was brief. The traveller left something on the bar, which vanished into the landlord's apron before the other man had even turned around. As he made for the exit, Will looked to Alyss, who curled her finger around the corner of her head scarf and flicked it.

Will stood and followed the traveller obediently.

* * *

If he had been in the forest, this would be a cinch. Following unseen was child's play at this point. But Will wasn't in the forest, so he had to change the way he moved and how he stalked to avoid looking like a drunk. The buildings were the trees and the masses the foliage, if foliage lumbered around with buckets and oxen and smelled like a cart of old hot onions.

Will's quarry led him out of the village and across the river, forest a fuzzy green line on the next hill. The land swooped down at his feet, a couple miles of farmland between him and that hill, no place for following inconspicuously.

 _So follow noticeably._

Will returned to the inn, where Tug remained in the shade. The shaggy grey horse rumbled in greeting, but Will didn't waste time greeting him back before untying him and guiding him back to the edge of the village.

The traveller was out of sight. No, he was there, beyond the only farm house. He had a horse now, moving fast. But Tug would be more than a match. Will tightened the girth and clambered into the saddle. The others would have to catch up.


	13. In for a Penny

**Recap: From a small village somewhere east of Turin, Will was put on the trail of a likely lead to the whereabouts of the Liberator and he sets out on his own.**

 **After breaking into a cellar containing priceless artwork and loot, Lauro and Pedro were caught by Spanish smugglers and only Lauro escaped.**

* * *

~13~ In for a Penny

If he was lucky, Tug would look like a tired old pony plodding home after a hard day's work.

Will dragged his feet through the dust, trying to look tired himself, as he followed the road sidling up to the long drive that led to a villa large enough to be a castle in England. Without his Ranger cloak, he felt he had the right to gawk, for he was naught but a humble farmer with his faithful pony with dreams of living in a place like that.

Sandstone walls blazed amber in the descending sun, punctuated by dark-framed windows and parapets. A portico supported by four marble pillars cast the entryway in shadow, but Will knew the front door must be grand indeed. From the front, he could see at least twenty windows, spread between three floors, and could only imagine the size and number of rooms within.

The garden spread across every inch of the property, which was embraced by a wall over twice Will's height, and the driveway was guarded by an even taller gate.

He'd seen that gate close, right behind his quarry, whom Alyss had sicced Will on after overhearing his conversation with the landlord in the village. The Ranger did not know what she'd heard, but it must have been interesting for her to send Will after him.

And he did follow, for hours, away from the village, across miles of farm- and woodland, to this very gate.

He paused, pretending to be admiring the villa but really concerned with discovering where his quarry had gone. He spotted him a moment later, emerging from the stables a hundred metres from the main building. Will knew it was him, even from so far away, from the red flash on the underside of his travel cloak.

The man, tall with wavy dark hair, bypassed the villa, heading for what looked like a small chapel on the western end of the estate. By the time he disappeared inside, Will had determined it was safe to step up to the gate. If there were guards, they weren't here now.

 _Why did you want me to follow this man, Alyss?_

He raised his eyes, following the outline of the gate. The iron bars were vertical and tipped with barbs, with few horizontal bars to hold them together. He wasn't climbing it like that. He turned his focus to the walls. Flawless, without so much as a chip to set his foot on. Whoever lived here took great care to dissuade any climbers.

Then Will's eye caught an imprint in one of the stones forming the edge of the wall, near the gate. A cross with four equal arms. The mark of the Templars.

He unconsciously reached for the pendant in his pocket. Philippe Dumont, the man who helped Will and his friends escape Lyon and then protected them from Assassins in the Alps, had given him the pendant as some kind of peace token. Or, perhaps, it was a reminder, a reminder of who could protect the Ranger Corps of England, or crush it.

Will took Tug's reins and kept walking, following the road, thoughts troubled. Assassins had reportedly broken into Crowley's office and attacked him, demanding an artifact he had given to Halt. This was according to Templar Philippe, who had all the reasons in the world to blame the Assassin Brotherhood for the attack. If he wanted the Corps to side with the Templars, this would be the way to do it. Who knows how many Rangers were fed this story, how many believed it, if it even happened at all.

These thoughts nagged Will now only because he was considering whether he should march through those gates like a Templar friend, or use that tree over there to climb over the wall and sneak over to the chapel in his Ranger cloak; there were enough bushes and trees to provide ample cover...

The road was curving away from the villa grounds. Will followed it, keeping his head hanging and feet dragging even though he was sure no one was watching him. Once back in the woods, he led Tug off the road and donned his Ranger cloak.

He trusted Philippe little more than he did the Assassins, and before he affiliated himself with anyone, he was going to find out more about them.

The tree he spotted earlier looked ancient, with a massive trunk that immediately split into branches too thick for him to wrap his arms around. One such branch had aimed straight for the wall before arching up and over it, just asking to be used to trespass. Suddenly unsure, Will remained tucked in a shelter of foliage, wrapped in his cloak. The wall had been flawless in its protection until this point. Besides the threat of a grappling hook, he saw no other way in. And he still saw no guards patrolling.

It could be a trap. But for whom? Surely not Will or his companions. Right?

Will stood there for over an hour, not moving, until the sun had sunk and a cool breeze began nosing through his cloak, seeking his skin. He thought of his companions, if they remained in the village or made camp in the woods, wondering what was taking him so long...

Suddenly he was at the base of the tree, and then he was shinnying up along the branch, pausing at regular intervals to watch and listen. Besides a servant lighting distant lampposts near the villa entrance, he saw no signs of life. Now over the walkway atop the wall, Will slid his legs off, holding on with his hands for a few seconds, as though giving himself a last chance to bail. He let go.

His feet touched stone with a soft _tap_ , and he remained in a crouch, expecting a holler or a "Gotcha!" But nothing. He looked around. If he climbed on the crenellations, he would just be able to grab the branch again and escape.

Stairs nearby took him down onto the grass, and it was with silent ease he closed the distance between himself and the chapel, which was lit from within. The windows were stained glass; there was no spying that way. The roof was sound and there seemed to be only one door. So, Will opened it.

After all the sneaking around, it seemed absurd to go strolling into the chapel like a boy going to service. But he did, even lowering his hood in respect and wiping his boots on the mat before seating himself at a pew. There were few of those, enough to sit a couple dozen faithful. Candle stands on either side of the entrance and around the altar banished the shadows to between the pews, but the thought of someone lying in wait there was silly to Will, so he worried not about it. Instead he focused on the man kneeling before the altar, head bowed in prayer. Not that he believed him to be actually praying.

His bow, strung, lay across his lap, loose in his hand. He had no intention of using it, not on this holy ground, but he was in the wolf's den and he wasn't much for religion anyway. The wolf knew this.

"You come alone."

Will remained as impassive as the stained glass figures he couldn't see in the windows. And he held his tongue.

"We've been expecting you. Monsieur Philippe will be most pleased you have chosen this path."

"What path?" Will said at last. The man stood, cape flowing like liquid midnight down his back, to his riding boots, and turned around. The belly of that cape was blood red, even in the meagre light. His overcoat—called a _cioppa_ , Will later found out—was black and trimmed with scarlet, a Templar cross emblazoned over his heart. A sheathed stiletto graced his side. His hair was neat and there seemed to be little to no dust on him. He did not look like the weary traveller he'd followed from the village.

The man had a rugged handsomeness Will found irritating, although he wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was the wiry moustache or arched eyebrows that were so prominent on his face. His smile looked forced and his accent was so thick, it was difficult to understand him.

"Have you come for absolution?"

"I have come to figure out what I'm dealing with," said Will.

"Do you have it?"

"What?" asked Will, though he knew he knew exactly what. The Templar wanted Halt's puzzle box.

The smile disappeared, chin lowered, and the man made a beckoning gesture with his hand.

The door to the chapel opened. Will sprung to his feet as two large men entered, making straight for him.

"Do not struggle, _signore_ , and they will not be forced to harm you. They must search you."

But Will stepped back to keep the distance, arrow already set to bow. "You can try."

The brutes paused, eyeing the weapon warily. If they charged, only one of them would survive. Will noticed the pistols in their belts, and knew the scene would have been different had they come in here with those drawn. The one on the right – an ugly man with pox scars and a missing ear – reached for his gun.

"Guy, do not touch that weapon in this holy place," croaked the voice of a third newcomer. It was so old it made Will's own throat feel dry. He glared at Guy, pronounced _Gee_ , who curled his lip but lowered his hand and stepped to the side.

The speaker came forth, hunched like an old gargoyle, wearing sweeping robes stitched with more Templar crosses.

"For heaven's sake, this man is not an Assassin; he will listen to reason. Stefano, please."

The sound of a sheathing blade made Will's back stiffen. He never heard it being drawn behind him.

"If I'm to forget your trespass, you must forgive my accomplices, _mio figlio,_ " said the old man. He could have been a bishop, his robes were so fine. His hair was wispy and white, like down feathers. "They are from the north, and are not used to our way of...handling things."

Will's senses were still afire, and he did not retract arrow from bow, although he kept the weapon lowered, knowing he could raise it in a heartbeat. "And you are?"

"You, young man, may call me Marcello. By what name may I call you?"

"What do you want with me?"

"Oh." Marcello ducked his head like a sheepish dog. There were so many wrinkles on the man's face, his expressions were quite animated, every emotion evident. "We have upset our English brother. We must make amends. _S_ _egui_ , we shall go inside, drink, eat." He beckoned.

Will wanted to refuse. But then, all of this would be for not. He shifted his weight to the other foot.

"If you do not wish to talk, _fratello_ , you may leave the way you came," the old Templar added, turning to go out. "Otherwise, allow me to give you the hospitality you so deserve, and slake your curiosity of the Truth."

"What truth?"

The man cackled and shuffled on, disappearing into the night.

Will looked at Guy and his fellow gorilla, then back at Stefano, whose hand remained on the hilt of his stiletto. None of them gave him any clues as to what his next move should be.

"To the villa, then?" he said.

~ Ʌ ~

Pedro woke to a crushed skull. At least, it felt crushed. It throbbed and pounded and hammered, every heartbeat like a kick from a horse. It made him ill, but he could not vomit. If he vomited, he would choke on his own sick; the gag was tight between his teeth, chafing the sides of his mouth. It was saturated with spit and snot.

He moved, and his shoulders screamed. His wrists were bound to his ankles, his face and chest pressed down against wood. He only wore a linen shirt and trousers, which were soiled by his lack of control while unconscious. A more embarrassing situation he'd never been in.

Even though it hurt, Pedro rolled onto his side and raised his head. Light seeped through the boards of what appeared to be some kind of crate. He was moving. The steady clop of hooves and squeak of wheels told him he was on a wagon.

 _Oh, Saint Mary..._

The arts of escape were some of the first skills one mastered once in the brotherhood. Pedro needed fifteen minutes.

 _Bastards knew what they were doing,_ he thought balefully as the knots finally came loose. If he'd regained consciousness earlier, it would have been done sooner – his hands were dead fish at the ends of his wrists.

He left the tangle of bindings around one ankle, knowing he could pretend to be bound again once the feeling returned to his limbs, and pulled the gag from his mouth. He took a full breath and used his shirt to wipe the slimy concoction of saliva and mucus from his face. There was nothing he could do about the urine in his pants.

 _Disgusting._

It took several minutes more before he felt confident enough to be able to fight or flee once the chance arose. And just in time. The wagon rumbled to a stop. Pedro listened. Sniffed. Woodland all around, at least one other wagon and several horses. He peered through a gap in the crate. Canvas blocked his view, but the weave was just loose enough for him to make out shapes beyond. Tall horses, not pack or draft animals, meant to outrun pursuers or overcome prey. He heard Spanish and Italian, sensed tension and restlessness. Pedro wondered if any of these men had been in that cellar with the hoard, and if one of them was responsible for his headache.

 _Lauro_.

He had no idea what became of him. The last thing he remembered was running for the stairs on his friend's heels. The thrice-damned hood had prevented him from seeing the club until it was too late. He could only hope his brother made it out, and got help.

Something thudded against the crate. Pedro quickly pulled up the gag, rolled onto his side and wormed his ankle and hands back into the knot. He wound it tight and hid the slack before rolling more onto his back. If he tried to run now, he would be shot like a dog.

But whoever was rummaging through the wagon left his crate alone. Didn't so much as check on him. They either thought him still unconscious or there was no way for him to get out. He looked up. Only darkness. Something solid was on top of his prison. After the rummager went away, he freed himself from the bonds again and pressed the flat of his feet up against the lid. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't so much as budge it.

 _Well this is a tight fix._

He was no stranger to these situations. Because of his...preferred company, he'd been chased out of more than one city, and sometimes he'd been caught. But he always got away without harming a soul. Those people simply didn't understand. These bastards, however...

If they were Templars, it wouldn't surprise him. More likely, they were paid by Templars. He and Lauro had been sent on many a mission to disrupt heists, and more often than not, they captured hired thieves, ones that easily broke under interrogation and led the Assassins to their employers.

Pedro peered out between the boards again, seeking a captain of this rabble. But the canvas cover was too hindering, the sky too dark. Faces were blurred, clothes obscured. He could only watch shapes move about, dismounting horses and setting up camp.

"What a slop of a job you've done."

Pedro tilted his head at the sound of a woman's voice. She spoke with authority, her words suggesting she was not on the level of this charming band. An employer, perhaps?

"We salvaged the goods, we got out, and no one was the wiser. Is that not enough?" drawled a male voice. Pedro recognized that Spanish accent from the cellar.

"I don't take kindly being lied to, señor Dominique. Your company was caught, your objective compromised. I have ears everywhere – I know not only did Assassins discover you, one escaped your grasp."

"...I would think about hiring new informants if I were you, señorita. We caught that Assassin just before he flitted off."

Pedro's stomach lurched.

"Is that so?" The woman walked her horse into view. Pedro could see the silhouette of her head against the deepening sky. "I know there were two."

" _S_ _í_ , one we caught. The other lies in a ditch, stripped and beaten until his own mother would not recognize him. He will be no threat to anyone."

"I see..."

She said something else, but Pedro's mind was like a young stallion, kicking and wheeling until he curbed its head and brought it back under control. Lauro wasn't dead. He was too fast. The Spaniard was lying. There was no loyalty here.

"I have his robes as proof, if you'd like to—"

"That won't be necessary," said the woman. "This Assassin you caught. At the bottom of the river, I trust?"

"No. I kept him safe for you. A...peace offering, if you will. A pricey one, mind."

"Ha! You were given more than enough to acquire the goods we asked for. And no soul can be bought. Not even that of an Assassin."

"He's my prisoner," Dominique growled.

"He's a misguided fool. Blind to the truth. A dog that pisses in the house should not be put down, but beaten and shown the right way of things."

"You mean to turn him into a Templar?" The Spaniard scoffed. "I can see now why they call you the Carver!"

The hiss of a blade leaving its scabbard, then spinning through the air. A yelp just before a solid thud. It wasn't hard for Pedro to imagine señor Dominique freezing as a knife just missed him – he had froze himself.

"Get. Him. Out." The woman turned her horse and spurred it away.

They were careful when they opened Pedro's crate. They had half a dozen rifles pointed at him, and naked blades gleamed in the campfires. They didn't take kindly to his loose bonds, and more than one boot found his gut as he was dragged to a pair of trees and tied to them, arms stretched to either side. He didn't struggle once, knowing it was fruitless, but he let them know he had steel in him. He held every gaze, didn't utter a sound when they struck him, and so they quickly came to leave him alone.

Or perhaps they left him alone because the Carver had already claimed him.

She didn't look a day over thirty. Might have been the light. Her hair was a soft brown and pulled back in a loose braid. Her brow was bowed and her nose turned up at the end, giving her the profile of a child, but her eyes were fiercely predatory. Short, what her stride lacked in distance it made up for in power.

But it wasn't until she approached him that Pedro realized why they called her the Carver. A more accurate title would be the Carved.

She knelt, setting down a bucket in her right hand, holding a torch in her left. She tugged the gag down from his mouth, letting it hang around his neck. She stared at him. He stared at her, held her gaze, even though he wanted to search her scars for the tales they each held. The torch threw them all in relief, and it was fascinating to watch them dance.

She reached into the bucket and pulled out a cloth. Pedro held still as she washed his face. Crusted spit and snot and blood were wiped away. He didn't ask why she was doing it, just sat there like a child who had come out at the bottom of a fight.

"What are you called?"

"Many things," said Pedro. "Handsome. Charming. Valiant. I've also been called Dead, Finished, and Mine, but none of those titles have made any sense."

She tilted her head. She had scars on her neck, too. "Tuscan. You are far from home."

"So are you. Venetian, is it? Has that city not sunk into the sea yet?"

The Carver set the cloth back in the bucket and held the torch so close to his face, sweat beaded his brow and his eyes watered. He could see nothing but fire.

"Had I been anyone else, I would have skinned your tongue for your insolence."

"We are both adults here. Both human beings. I treat as I expect to be treated." He tested his bonds, arms tied to either tree. "Not everyone thinks as I do, apparently."

"We are not fools, Assassin. You've already escaped your bonds once. It would be unwise to do it again." She withdrew the torch. Dark blotches obscured his vision.

"What are you doing so far from home?"

"I could ask you the same thing," said Pedro, "except I already know. Stealing is, after all, what you Templars do best."

"Is that all you perceive us to be? Thieves? I must admit my disappointment."

"I don't speak of theft of property, although you're very good at that. I speak of the theft of freedom. Of lives. You take human out of humanity—"

The flash of a knife. A prick under his chin. Pedro tilted his head back. Swallowed.

"Law, little Assassin. Law is what separates us from the animals. Separates us from _beasts_. You know what else separates us from beasts?" She turned the knife. A tickle slithered down Pedro's neck.

"The use of weapons comes to mind," he said softly.

With a sneer she whipped the knife away, so fast he didn't feel the cut under his jaw for several seconds.

"You will learn, Assassin. And I will teach you." She pointed the knife, stained with his blood, at a deep gouge in her cheek. "How do you think I got these?"

"Accident while shaving?" He couldn't help but flinch as she opened another cut on his face. That one was going to scar.

"They are failures. Every time I kill a man, every time I fail to show him the light, I give myself a reminder. Pain means little to me anymore."

"You know, self-mutilation isn't the way. There are places you can go, people you can talk to—not the face!"

Eyes closed and teeth bared in feigned preparation, Pedro remained stiff and still for several seconds. When he peeked with one eye, she was smiling at him. It might have been a beautiful smile once.

"Such a handsome man..." She slide the back of the blade along his eyebrow and down his cheek, a lover's caress. "You will learn, Assassin. You will learn or you will perish. That is survival in our world."

"Better to die free than live under your boot," Pedro growled. This time he didn't flinch when she cut him. She pointed to a smooth spot near the side of her neck.

"This. This is for you. Don't make me mar one of the last places unblemished by steel."

"I'd hate to be such a nuisance," he said with a mocking smile. The Carver returned it, then picked up the torch and strode away. Pedro frowned at her back.

"Um...can I get a change of pants? Please?"

No answer. Pedro looked about as best he could. There were guards all around, guards with torches that infiltrated every shadow in the camp. Their night vision would be ruined but there were enough of them that if anyone tried to attack on the sly, someone else could raise the alarm.

But he had to believe his friends would come for him. Even if he really didn't.


End file.
